UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


/./ 


S=TI3:E=S:0 


*^  Speaker  ii  ^b^WMti 


■  AND 


f 


ITEEAMY  ||©1[JQ¥ET. 


-VOli'Or^E    'K'K^ 


Ql 


;COM  B  I  N  ING: 


DICE  Selection^  is,  5,  e,  y  ai  8, 


;i.  3Vr  B  E/  .A.  CI  3sr  C3-r 


i*Vi^^   ^?^^  Standard  Produciions 
Oratory,  SaitUm&nt,  Bio  qui 
Pathos,   Wit,  ifufuor  and 
Amateur  Fiays, 

±0 


PHILADKLPiriA: 

^     No.  708  Chestnut  Street. 
4L^'^     CHICAOO:— 130  E.  Adams  Sireet. 
189S. 


J^^<~y^^^ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 
Q£^  P.  GARRETT  &  CO.,  ^^^^I^ 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington.       ''"-^'' — 


^:^^^?^r 


*  'f3 


oTATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

liOS  AKGELiES,  CAli. 


4  133 


^TO  THE  GOOD  MD  TRUE  OF  THE  HATION,-^^^ 


To 

the  Millions 

of  Intelligent  ^Readers  and  Speakers 

throughout  our  Country,  and  to  all  who 

appreciate  Choice  Literature,  either 

in  the  (Parlor,  School  (Room, 

Library  or  Forum, 


l^il  |(?(?ipf  i?  |r$pf f fWls  %4\n\^i  .^ 


UNIFORM  PUBLICATIONS: 

TEE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol.  1. 

(Containing  "100  Choice  Seiections,"  Nos.  1,  2.  3.  4.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol.  IL 

(Containing  "1Q0  Clioics  Seiections,"  No».  5,  6,  7,  8.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol.  Ill 

(Containing  "100  Clioice  Selections,"  Nos.  9,  10,  II,  12.) 

TEE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,'  Vol.  IV. 

(Containing  "100  Choic;  Selections,"  Nos.  33,  ;4,  15,  16.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol,  V. 

(Containing  "100  Cliolce  Selections,"  Nos.  17,  18,  19,  20.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol.  VI. 

(Containing  "100  Choice  Selections,"  Not.  21,  22,  23,  24.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol  VII. 

(Containing  "100  Choice  Selections,"  Nos.  25,  26,  27,  28.) 

THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND,  Vol.  VIII. 

(Containing  "100  Choice  Selections,"  Nos.  29,  30,  31,  32.) 

Frice,  per  "^ol-a.m.e,  Clotla.,  -  -  -  ^l.TS, 


CONTENTS. 


: — ♦•♦ 

^SELECTIONS  IN  POETRY. 

Atheist,  Tlie WiUiam  Knox.     T.  50 

Afl'ectation  in  the  Puljiit , WilUaiu  Coirper.     v.  92 

Annabel  Lee Eilyar  A.  Poe.     v.  122 

Absence Frances  Anne  Kemble.     v.  127 

At  the  Wind(iw— An  Extract Alfred  Tennyson,     v.  132 

Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer Sojiliia  P.  Snow.     v.  166 

All's  for  the  Best M.  F.  Tupper.     vi.  7 

Answer  to  "I  am  Dying" Rev.  William  Lanrie.     vi.  25 

Address  to  the  JVIuiumy  at  Belzoni's  Exhibition Horace  Smith,     vi.  93 

Answer  of  Belzoni's  Mummy vi.  95 

Are  the  Children  at  Home? .V.  E.  Songster,     vi.  126 

Answer  to  "  Five  O'clock  in  the  Morning" vii.  45 

Answer  to  "Leoaa" vii.  48 

Alonzo  the  Brave,  and  the  Fair  Imogine 3f.  G.  Lewis,  vii.  68 

At  Last Clarkson  Clothier,  vii.  88 

Agony  Bells Altie  Wellington,  vii.  167 

As  "Old  Giles  Saw  It" D.  S.   Cohen,  vii.  168 

All's  Well viii.  22 

Abram  and  Ziniri Clarence  Cook.  viii.  34 

"Are  You  a  Mason  ?  " liev.  Mr.  H!ogill.  viii.  106 

Across  the  Eiver Lucy  Larcom.  viii.  130 

■^'Sill  and  Joe 0.  W.  Uolmes.  v.  49 

Battle  of  Ivry,  The T.  B.  Mtcanlay.  v.  71 

Blacksmith's  Story,  The Frank  Olive,  v.  88 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The F.  M.  Finch,  v.  154 

Balance  Wheel,  The Elmer  Ituan  Coates.  v.  172 

.  Bill  Mason's  Bride Bret  11  arte.  vi.  120 

By  the  SliorK  of  the  KivtT C.  P.  Cranch.  vii.  8 

*XoTK.— As  uHcli  of  the  four  NuiuIi'Tm  i  of  the  "  lUU  Choice  SekK'tions"  Suries) 
cont-'iined  in  this  volume  is  paged  independently  of  tlie  others,  the  index  must 
necessarily  accord  therewith.  The  column  of  Roman  Notation  designates  the 
different  Numbers  of  the  "Series"  (viz.,  5,  6,  7,  8 ;  and  the  fignrcx  refer  to  the 
page  of  the  corresponding  Numlier.  Take,  for  instance,  "All's  for  the  Best,"  the 
characters  VI.  show  that  it  will  be  found  in  No.  6,  and  the  figures  following  give 
the  page.  The  dilTiTent  Numbers  are  given  at  the  top  of  every  right-hand  jiage 
"  'lUghout  the  book. 

<^FoB  Srlectiovs  in  Pbose,  bee  paqe  XII. — Foa  Dramas  and  Dulgoves, 

PAOE  XIV. 

V 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Borrioboola  Glia Orrin  Goodrich,  vii.  29 

Boy  who  Went  from  Huiue,  The Enouu  M.  Juhnslon.  vii.  121 

Burial  of  the  Daue,  The U.  M.  Brownell.  viii.  23 

Bridge  of  Truth,  The viii.  4C 

Baggage  Fiend,  The viii.  81 

Beautiful  Dreams viii.  86 

Ben  Fisher Frances  Dana  Gage.  viii.  Ill 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The Kobert  Soulhey.  viii.  159 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe,  viii.  160 

Bull  Fight,  The Byron,  viii.  169 

Compensation v.  £0 

Chicago Dwight   Williams,    v.  32 

Crape  on  the  Door v.  36 

Catiline's  last  Harangue  to  his  Ariay 7ieii.  George  Croly.     v.  149 

Comical  Dun,  A John  McKeever.     v.  164 

Char-co-o-al v.  181 

Claude  Melnotte's  Apology E.  Bulwer  Lytton.     vi.  136 

Conscience  and  Future  Judgment vi.  138 

Charcoal  Man,  The J.  T.  Troichridge.    vi.  181 

Cheer  Up vii.  7 

Cid  and  Bavieca,  The vii.  147 

Coquette  Punished,  A , viii.  36 

Clown's  Story,  The Vandyke  Browne,  viii.  48 

Cassius  against  Ciesar Shakspeare.  viii.  56 

Dying  Brigand,  The v.  14 

Deeds  Versus  Creeds Annie  I  Mitzzey.     v.  25 

Death  of  an  Inebriate v.  55 

Dora Alfred  Tennyson,     v.  61 

Deborah  Lee. — A  Parody v.  123 

Drafted Mrs.  H.  L.  Bostwick.     r.  162 

Dying  Boy,  The v.  161 

Dermot's  Parting vi.  14 

Doctor  and  his  Apples,  The vi.  20 

Deacon  Monroe's  Story JV.  S.  Emerson,     vi.  36 

Death  of  Gaudentis Harriet  Annie,     vi.  75 

Dirge Charles  G.  Eastman,     vi.  88 

Dreams  and  Realities Phebe  Cury,     vi.  158 

Dying  Alchemist,  The N.  P.  Willis,    vi.  174 

Deacon  Hezekiah vi.  186 

Dickens  in  Camp Bret  Harte.  vii.  157 

Damon  to  the  Syracusans John  B'inim.  vii.  177 

Der  Baby viii.  96 

Dirge,  A Eev.  George  Orohj.  viii.  100 

Death-Ride,  The Westland  ISIarston.  viii.  103 

Dying  Street  Arab,  The Matthias  Barr.     viii.  154 

Drummer's  Bride,  The viii.  175 

Dying  Hymn,  A Alice  Gary.  viii.  176 

Engineer's  Story,  The vi.  72 

Emblems Richard  Coe.     vi.  83 


CONTENTS.  VII 

No.  Page. 

Eleventh  Hour,  The Anna  L.  liuth.     vi.  123 

Erin's  Flag Father  Jlyan.  vii.  38 

Example vii.  1T7 

Eagle's  Rock,  The viii.  U 

EtiJurance Elizabeth  Akers.  viii.  28 

Exile  to  his  Wife,  The Joe  Bretmaii.  viii.  53 

Elegy  written  in  a  Couutry  Church-Yard Thomas  Gray.  viii.  82 

Faithful  Lovers,  The vi.  83 

Fitz  James  and  RoUerick  Dhu Sir  Walter  Scott,     vi.  123 

First  Appearance  in  Typo Oliixr  Wendell  Holmes,    vi.  183 

Frenchman  and  the  Rats,  The vi.  189 

Factory  Girl's  Last  Day,  The vii.  36 

Friar  Philip vii.  173 

Faith  and  Works Alice  Cary.  viii.  CI 

Forest  Hymn,  A William  CuUcn  Bryant,  viii.  114 

First  Parting,  The Marian  Bouglas.  viii.  141 

Golden  Shoes „ v.  142 

Giles  and  Abraham Elmer  liuan  Conies,     vi.  54 

Gradatim J.  G.  Holland,     vi.  60 

Green  Mountain  Justice,  The 7?ei>,  Henry  li«eves.     vi.  118 

Griper  Greg vii.  52 

Gray  Swan,  Tlie Alice  Cary.  vii.  63 

Gladiator,  Tlie „ J.  A.  Jones,  vii.  81 

Gravesof  the  Patriots,  The J.  G.  Pcrciial.  vii.  156 

Galley  Slave,  The Henry  Abbey,  vii.  153 

Glove  and  the  Lions,  The Leigh  Hunt,  y'lii.  18 

Ilarmosan Itichard  C.  Trench,     v.  44 

Hotspur's  Defence Shalatpeare.     v.  78 

How  Betsey  and  1  Made  Up Will  Carleton.     v.  157 

Heavier  the  Cross Schmolke.    vi.  34 

Home  Picture,  A Frances  Dana  Gage.     vi.  43 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers , Horace  Smith,     vi.  105 

How's  my  Boy Si/dney  iJobell.     vi.  148 

Helvellyn iSir  W<Uter  ScoU.    vi.  185 

Have  Charity vii.  75 

How  Jamie  Came  Home Will  Carleton.  vii.  76 

Hamlet's  Ghost Shalispeare.  vii.  89 

Hcrvo  Riel Tiobert  Browning,  vii.  113 

Heroes  of  Greece Byron,  vii.  133 

Hebrew  Tale,  A Lydia  H.  Sigonrtiey.  viii.  73 

Heritage,  The Ja.nca  JiiisaeU  Lowell,  viii.  152 

It  is  well  we  Cannot  See  the  End v.  82 

Is  it  Anybody's  Business? v.  178 

lam  Dying vi.  23 

If  wo  had  but  Known vi.  114 

Iiiroiistant vi.  122 

I  Sue  for  DanjagoM vi.  149 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

No.      Page. 

I  have  Drank  my  Last  Glass vi.  1(54 

In  School-Days John  G.  WhiUier.     vi.  172 

1  was  with  Grant Brel  Uurte.  vii.  ilT 

Idiot  Boy,  The vii.  134 

If  we  Would viii.  117 

It  Might  Have  Bueu A.  A.  Hojikim.  viii.  124 

John  Maynard v.  22 

Joe Alice  Rohbim.     v.  42 

Jaffar Leigh  Hunt.     vi.  1U7 

Jolly  Old  Pedagogue,  The George  Arnold,     vi.  155 

Johnny  Bartholomew Thomas  Dunn  English,  vii.  15 

Joe  Jones — A  Parody vii.  73 

John  Gilpin William  Cowper.  vii.  151 

John  Jankin's  Sermon viii.  2G 

Jephthah's  Hash  Vow Miss  Howard,  viii.  143 

Knight  and  the  Lady,  The Bev.  R.  H.  Barham.     v.  112 

Knocked  About Daniel  Connolly,     v.  130 

Kate  Kotchem Phebe  Vary.  vii.  20 

Kiss  at  the  Door,  A vii.  139 

Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Gray J.  H.  Pijcley. •\iii.  28 

Kit  Carson's  Ride Joaquin  Miller,  viii.  160 

Little  Church  Round  the  Corner,  The A.  E.  Lancaster,    v.  65 

Lament  of  Jacoh  Gray,  The H.  Elliott  Mc Bride,     v.  81 

Learning  to  Pray Mary  E.  Dodge,     v.  110 

Love  Liglitens  Labor v.  177 

Last  Mile-Stones,  The Pearl  Rivers,     vi.  62 

Last  Man,  The Thomas  Campbell,     vi.  65 

Little  Grave,  The vi.  67 

Light William  Pitt  Palmer,     vi.  87 

Life  from  Death Horatius  Bonar.    vi.    .       100 

Leoiia James  G.  Clarke,  vii.  47 

LostMr.  Blake W.  S.  Gilbert,  vii.  60 

Left  Alone  at  Eight}' Alice  Bobbins,  vii.  61 

Little  Mary's  Wish  '. Mrs.  L.  M.   Blinn.  vii.  83 

Labor  is  Worship Frances  S.   Osgood,  vii.  97 

Life's  Conflict William  \Miitehead.  vii.  107 

Little  Boy  that  Died,  The J.  D.  Robimon.  vii.  116 

Laborer,  The 11'.  D.  Gallagher,  viii.  8 

Let  every  one  Sweep  before  his  own  Door viii.  59 

Lost  Heir,  The Thomas  Hood.  viii.  127 

Lofty  Faith viii.  149 

Modulation Lloyd,     v.  135 

Moneyless  Man,  The H.  T.  Stanton,     v.  170 

Minister's  Quarter  Pay-Day,  A vi.  8 

Memory's  Wildwood vi.  42 

Mischief  Makers vi.  61 

Mystic  Weaver,  The Dr.  Harbaugh.     vi.  80 


COKTENTS.  IX 

No.      rage. 

Midsummer-Day  Scene,  A vii.  46 

Marmion  and  Douglas Sir  \\\xller  Scott,  vii.  91 

My  Childhood  Home B.  P.  ShilUiber.  vii.  99 

Mona's  Waters vii.  100 

Blercy Shakepeare.   vii.  123 

Man  maybe  Happy Peter  Pindar,  vii.  128 

My  Creed Alice  Gary.  vii.      —  1.40_ 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience Elizabeth  Llnijd.  vii.  146 

My  Mother's  Bible G<orije  P.  3Iorris.  viii.  61 

Mystery  of  Life  in  Christ,  The jl/rs.  £>.  Priiiliss.  viii.  64 

Mahmoud Leigh  Hunt.  viii.  77 

Magical  Isle,  The viii.     '       90 

New  Thanatopsis Win.  II.  Ilolcomhe.     v.  96 

Nantucket  Skipper,  The Jaiiies  T.  Fields,     v.  102 

Now  I  lay  me  Down  to  Sk>ep v.  109 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  Paper  To-Day vi.  26 

New  Church  Organ,  The Will  C<n-hton.     vi.  70 

New  Version  of  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That "' Chorleti  H[ackay.     vi.  112 

Now vii.  14 

Not  very  Far Huratius  Bonar.  vii.  51 

Never  Give  Up viii.  7 

Name,  A W.  F.    Fox.  viii.  72 

No  Mortgage  on  the  Farm John  II.  Yatei.  viii.  137 

Not  Lost viii.  151 

Nothing  but  Leaves viii.  156 

Our  Folks Ethel  Lynn.     v.  15 

Over  the  Hills  from  the  Poor-Uouse 3Iay  Mignonette,     v.  125 

Old  School-House,  The v.  150 

One  Night  with  Gin Phoenix,     v.  159 

Old  Man  in  the  Stylish  Church,  The John  H.  Yates,  vi.  44 

One  Glass  Morn vi.  106 

Old  Man  in  the  Model  Church,  The John  II.  Yates,     vii.  12 

Old  Chums Alice  Gary.  vii.  161 

Old  Forsaken  School-House,  The John  H.  Yates,  viii.  So" 

Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy Will  Carleton.  viii.  43 

Old  Canoe,  The Albert  Pike.  viii.  87 

Order  fir  a  Picture,  An Alice  Gary.  viii. 

Our  Wliole  Country viii.  138 

Out  in  the  Sobbing  Rain Dora  Shaw.  viii.  150 

Press  On Park  Benjamin,     v.  7 

Poor  Player  at  the  Gate,  The George  VandenhoJ)'.     v.  66 

Punst  Pearl,  The v.  73 

Peter's  Hide  to  the  Wedding Samuel  J.  Smith.     T.  76 

Tliantoni  IsIi'H,  The John  Monxell.     v.  77 

"crversion  of  the  Bible Hubert  Pollok.     v.  84 

■'uzzled  Dutchman,  The Gharles  Fallen  Adams,     v.  116 

I'rayer  and  Potatoes liev.  J.  T.  Pettee.     v.  147 

'rayers  of  Children vi.  56 


A  A 


* 


X  CONTENTS. 

No.  Page. 

Perverse  Hen,  The vi.  90 

Paddy's  Excelsior vi.  103 

Platonic William  B.  Terrell,     vi.  1C3 

Pastor  Wanted,  A vii.  19 

Persevere John  Broujiiam.  vii.  87 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem Adelaide  Anne  Procter,  vii.  118 

Picture,  The '. viii.  109 

Quilting,  The Anna  Bache.     vi.  63 

Quaker  and  the  Robber,  The Samuel  Lover,  viii.  67 

Rescue  of  Chicago,  The Henry  M.  Look.     v.  34 

River,  The v.  140 

Rainbow,  The Amelia  B.  Welby.  vii.  109 

Rock  of  Ages vii.  141 

Rabboni Margaret  J.  Preston,  viii.  69 

Saved  Jennie  Joy.    v.  8 

Song  of  the  Dyin^,  Tlie Captain  Bowling,     v.  91 

Seven  Ages  of  Man Shalispeare.     v.  106 

Super's  Story,  The Edwin  Dreiv.     v.  '^4 

Strange  Land,  The Robert  C.  V.  Bleyers.     v.  180 

Shall  We  Know  Each  Other  There? vi.  99 

Soliloquy  of  King  Richard  III Shakspeare.     vi.  177 

Silver  Wedding,  The Mrs.  C.  M.  Stuwe.     vi.  177 

Shall  the  Baby  Stay? vii.  59 

Shadows vii.  93 

Sunnit  to  the  Big  Ox,  A vii.  112 

Stab,  The Will  Wallace  Harney,  vii.  129 

Song  of  Steam Geunje  W.  Cutter,  vii.  129 

Sowing  and  Harvesting vii.  1C3 

Song  of  Saratoga John  G.  Snxe.  vii.  166 

Shadow  on  the  Blind,  The viii.  11 

Sign  of  Distress,  Tlie viii.  63 

Spiritual  Temple,  The viii.  97 

Sexton,  The Park  Benjamin,  viii.  99 

Snowstorm,  The C.  G.  Eastman,  viii.  122 

Singing  for  the  Million Thomas  Hood.  viii.  163 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride John  G.  Whiltier.  viii.  173 

Sneezing  Man,  The Ward  M.  Florence,  viii.  179 

Teaching  Public  .Scliool v.  47 

There  is  no  Death E.  Brdwer  Lytton.     v.  99 

Thoughts  of  "Enoch   Arden," Beatrice,     v.  134 

To  those  about  to  Marry vi.  78 

Through  Trials Bosegarten.  vii.  £1 

Think  of  Me  Then vii.  70 

Triumph  of  Order,  A John  Hay.  vii.  86 

Tim  Twinldeton's  Twins Charles  A.  Bell.  vii.  125 

Two  Villages,  The Rose  Terry,  vii.  176 

Tired  Mothers Mrs.  Albert  Smith,  viii.  13 


CONTENTS.  XI 

No.  Page. 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe _ n'.  S.  GilberL  viii.  40 

Three  Bells,  The John  G.  W'hiUier.  yiu.  113 

That  Line  Fence viii.  158 

Uncle  Jo Alice  Cary.     vi.  157 

Unfortunate  Likeness,  Au It".  S.  Giibert.  vii.  137 

Vision  of  Immortality,  The E.  P.  Weston,     v.  56 

Vat  Have  I  Got  to  Pay? U'.  H.  Freeman,     vi.  12 

Vision  of  the  Monk  Gabriel,  The Eleanor  C.  Donnelly,     vi.  48 

Voices  at  the  Throne,  The T.  Westwood.  vii.  74 

Whiskers,  The Samuel   Woodworlh.     v.  20 

What  the  Old  Man  Said Alice  liobbins.     v.  103 

What  Does  it  Matter? v.  169 

Wounded  Soldier,  The v.  179 

When Snsim  Coolidge.     vi.  15 

Woman's  Question,  A Adelaide  Anne  Procter,     vi.  91 

Wants  of  Man,  The J.  Q.Adams,     vi.  139 

Where  Man  Should  Die Mkhael  Joseph  Barry,     vi.  180 

Weaver,  The Wm.  H.  Burleigh,  vii.  18 

William  Tell vii.  32 

Wanted — A  Pastor viii.  42 

Wives  of  Brixham,  The viii.  78 

Warren's  Address John  Pierpout.  viii.  145 

You  put  no  Flowers  on  My  Papa's  Grave C.  E.  L.  Holmes,     v.  119 

Youth  and  Age vi.  51 

Yarn  of  the  "Nancy  Bell" Il'  S.  Gilbert,  vii.  10 

Ye  Editor's  Perplexities viii.  56 


^IPPLEMENTARV  PaGKS. 

Sentiments,  Lifj  Thoughts,  Witticisms  and  Funny  Sayings. 


60 
64 


XII  C0NTKNT3. 

SELECTION'S  IF  PROSE* 

!zi 

cs 

a*  P 

o  W 

PI  fC 

Artemus  Ward  visits  the  Shakers Charles  F.  Brown,    v.  53 

Artemus  Ward  on  Woman's  Riglits Charlts  F.  Brown,     vi  40 

America Vhurles  Phillips,    vi.  101 

Blacksmith  of  Ragenbach,  The ^-  ^^ 

Brother  Watkina ''"'■ 

'Biah  Cathcart's  Proposal t-eo'V  »  ""^  Ii»eeher.  vii. 

Battle  of  Life,  The '^  ^"''-  '"'•  ^^ 

Bill  Arp  on  the  Rack t.W'«.  H.  ii>nilh.  vui.  88 

Child's  Dream  of  a  Star,  A Charles  Diclens.     v.  16 

Cousin  Sally  Dilliard H.  C.  Junes,     v.  94 

Catiline  Expelled Oteero.     v.  163 

Crossing  the  Carry liev.  \V.  U.  H.  Murray,     v.  182 

Catastrophe,  A '••  ^^ 

Census- Taker's  Experience,A '^  ^^^ 

Character  of  Henry  Clay William  H.  Seward.  viL  94 

Duelist's  Honor,  The Bifhop  England,     v.  74 

Darkey's  Counsel  to  the  Newly  M:irried Ed'iund  Kirke.     v.  171 

Deaf  as  a  Post vi.  63 

Duty  of  the  American  Scliolar .Oeorge  W.  Curtis,     vi.  68 

Difficulty  about  that  Dog,  The vi.  I(i8 

Drunkard's  Death,  The Charles  Dickens,     vi.  115 

Dream  of  the  "Fat  Contributor" A.  Minnr  Orimrold.     vi.  160 

David  Copperfield  and  his  Child-Wife Charles  Dickens,     vi.  166 

Double  Bed,  The vii.  131 

Dumb-Waiter,  The Frederic  S.  Cozzens.  vii.  178 

Dignity  of  Labor,  The Neinnnn  Hall.  viii.  9 

Dishonest  Politician,  The //  nrij  Ward  Beechei:  viii.  38 

David,  King  of  Israel Edward  lr>nnri.  viii.  92 

Death  of  Little  Nell Charles  Dickens,  viii.  171 

Existence  of  a  God,  Tlie r.  51 

Extract  from  a  Speech  on  Temperance Schv>/Jer  Colfax,     v.  128 

^Eloquence Leiris  Cn-vi.     vi.  11 

/Examples  for  Ireland T.  F.Meagher,     vi.  131 

Eulogy  on  Lafayette Charles  Spragite.     vi.  151 

Eloquence  and  Logic W.  C.  Preston,  vii.  9 

Education Schuyler  Colfax,  vii.  71 

Freedom  and  Patriotism Orville  Deicey.  viii.  65 

Gape-Seed George  W.  Bnngnjj.     v.  87 

Give  me  Back  my  Husband v.  106 

High  Art— Music Cliarles  n.  Clark,     vi.  84 

How  Terry  Saved  his  Bnrnn vi.  153 

*Sec  Explanatory  Note  on  pwge  v. 


CONTENTS.  XIII 

No.  Page. 

Irish  Letter,  An v.  60 

ludiaus,  The Joseph  Story,     v.  100 

Infamuus  Legislatiuii Edmund  Burke,     v.  Ill 

Imitation vii.  16 

Immortality Massillon.  viii.  24 

Jenkins  Goes  to  a  Pic-nic vi.  46 

Jerusalem  by  Moonlight Benjuiuin  Disraeli,     vi.  187 

Jimmy  Butler  and  the  Owl vii.  64 

King  and  the  Locusts,  The viii.  32 

Literary  Pursuits  and  Active  Business A.  H.  Everett,     vi.  39 

Lord  Dundreary  at  Brighton vii.  143 

Life's  Battle. — An  Oration vii.  164 

Mark  Twain's  Account  of  "Jim  Smilry" S.  L.  Clemens,     v.  36 

Mr.  Caudle  Having  Lent  Five  Pounds  to  a  Friend... Iioh(//iis  Jerrold.     v.  68 

Mouse-Hunting B.  P.  Sliillaher.     v.  136 

Mrs.  Caudle  has  taken  Cold Douglas  Jerrold.     vi.  97 

Mark  Twain  on  Juvenile  Pugilists    S.  L.  Clemens,     vi.  124 

Miss  Malony  on  the  Chinese  Question Mary  M.  Dodge,     vi.  133 

Mad  Engineer,  The vii.  39 

Mr.  Stiver's  Horse James  M.  Bailey,  vii.  103 

Mark  Twain  Edits  an  Agricultural  Paper S.  L.*Clemens.  vii.  118 

Mr  Perkins  Helps  to  move  a  Stove James  M.  Bailey,  viii.  19 

Melting  Moments viii.  46 

Model  Love-Letter,  A..V. Tiii.  101 

Mr.  Perkins  Buys  a  Dog James  M.  Bailey,  y'lii.  134 

Mark  Twain  tells  an  Anecdote  of  A    Ward S.  L.  Clemens,  viii.  154 

Man  of-Expedients,  The S  Gilman.  viii.  166 

Noble  Revenge,  The vi.  76 

Night  with  a  Ventriloquist,  A  Henry  Cockton.     vi.  141 

National  Banner,  The Edward  Ererett.     vi.  183 

Noble  Revenge Thomas  De  Quincy.  vii.  171 

Old  Yankee  Farmer,  The v.  108 

One  Niche  the  Highest Elihu  Bnrrilt.  vii.  22 

Oratory  and  the  Press Daniel  Dougherty,  viii.  107 

Power  of  Habit,  The John  B.  Gough.     v.  86 

Putting  lip  Stoves V.  151 

Public  Virtue Nenry  Clay.     v.  156 

Patriotism T.  F.  Meagher,     vi.  67 

Poxt  Nummos  Virtus Archhishop  Spaulding.  vii.  84 

Political  Corruption George  McDuffie.  vii.  110 

Patrick  O'Rouko  and  the  Frogs George  W.  Bungay,  viii.  60 

Railroad  Car  Scene,  A v.  26 

Rome  and  Carthage Victor  Hugo.     vi.  62 

Recollections  of  my  Christmas  Tree Charles  Dickens,  viii.  62 

Ridla's  Address  to  the  Peruvians R.  B.  f^heridan.  viii.  81 

Rip  Van  Winkle Washington  Irving,  viii.  118 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

No.  Page. 

Slight  Misunderstanding,  The v.  11 

ghepherd  of  the  People,  Tlie lieu.  Phillips  Brooks,     v.  58 

Sorrow  for  the  Dead Washingbon  Irving,     v.  120 

Sketch  of  the  "  Old  Coachiug  Diiya,"  A John  Poole,     vi.  27 

Snow  of  Age,  The vi.  8!) 

Struggle  with  a  Stove-Pipe,  A James  M.  Bailey,  vii  34 

Socks  for  John  KandalJ Mrs.  P.  H.  Phelps,  vii.  148 

Speech  by  Obadiah  Partington  Swipes vii.  160 

Simon  Short's  Son  Samuel viii.  74 

Speech  of  Vindication Robert  Emmett.  viii.  139 

Strong  Drink.. J.  A.  Seiss.  viii.  177 

Tomb  of  Washington,  Tlie ; J.    W.  Savage,     v.  143 

Thrilling  Sketch : Salalhiel.  viii.  140 

True  Source  of  Reform,  The Edwin  H.  Chnpin.  viii.  ICl 

Union  linked  with  Liberty Andrew  Jackson,  vii.  124 

Value  of  Keputation Charles  Phillips,     v.  79 

Voices  of  the  Dead Kev.  John  Cumming,     vi.  17 

Visit  to  Tomkinsville  University,  A vii.  78 

Worth  of  Eloquence,  The v.  9 

Who  Would  bo  a  Boy  Again  ? vii.  90 

What  Might  Have  Been? viii.  125 


Supplementary  Paoes. 
Sentiments,  Life  Thoughts,  Witticisms  and  Funny  Sayings. 


DRAMAS  AND  DIALOGUES. 

An  Electric  Episode Helen  Booth,     vi.  207 

BillJepson's  Wife Roberta  V.Meyers,     vi.  201 

Conqueror  Conquered,  The George  S.  Burleigh,  viii.  193 

Cold-Water  Cross .-... viii.  199 

Demons  of  the  Glass,  The Oliver  Optic,  viii.  201 

Frightened  Lodger,  A H.  Elliott  McBride.    v.  214 

Ghost  Scene  from  "Hamlet" Shakspeare.  vii.  206 

Long-Lost  Nephew,  The Robert  C.  V.Meyers,  vii.  193 

Mind  Tour  own  Business H.  EllioU  McBride.     v.  225 

Miss  Higgiuson^s  Will J.  A.  Bellows,     v.  233 

Queer  Fit,  A v.  201 

Saved viiL  211 

Trusty  and  True Mrs.  Clara  A.  Si/lvester.    v.  206 

Two  Lives George  31.  Vickers.  viii.  216 

Vanity  Vanquished II.  Elliott  McBride.     vi.  216 

Veiled  Priestess,  The .Laura  U.  Case.  viii.  205 


fart  Ml 


I 


EcLcft  of  the  FovLT  JVizTTxhers  of 
" lOO  Chotae  Selections''  contciined 
tn  tlxts  voliZTne  is  paged,  sepcurcttely , 
CLTtd  the  Indes:  ts  TrhCLd.e  to  coTres- 
pond  tTxereTVztTz.     See  EXPLANATION  otl 

first  page  of  Contents. 

The  eittire  hooTz  contains  nearly 
10 OO  pages. 


100 

CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

No.  5. 


PRESS  ON.— Park  Benjamin. 

Press  on !  there's  no  such  word  as  fail ; 

Press  nobly  on !  the  goal  is  near ; 
Ascend  the  mountain !  breast  the  gale ! 

Look  upward,  onward, — never  fear! 
Why  shouldst  thou  faint?  Heaven  smiles  above 

Though  storm  and  vapor  intervene; 
That  sun  shines  on,  whose  name  is  love, 

Serenely  o'er  life's  shadowed  scene. 

Press  on  !  surmount  the  rocky  steeps. 

Climb  boldly  o'er  the  torrents'  arch ; 
He  fails  alone  who  feebly  creeps ; 

He  wins  who  dares  the  hero's  march. 
Be  thou  a  hero !  let  thy  might 

Tramp  on  eternal  snows  its»way, 
And  through  the  ebon  walls  of  night, 

Hew  down  a  passage  unto  day. 

Press  on  !  if  once,  and  twice  thy  feet 

Slip  l)ack  and  stumble,  harder  try  ; 
From  him  who  never  dnsads  to  meet 

Danger  and  death,  they're  sure  to  fly. 
To  coward  ranks  tlie  bullet  speeds; 

While  on  their  breasts  wlio  never  quail, 
Gleams,  guardian  of  chivalric  deeds. 

Bright  courage,  like  a  coat  of  mail. 

7 


ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Press  on!  if  fortune  play  thee  false 

To-day,  to-morrow  she'll  be  true; 
Whom  now  she  sinks,  she  now  exalts, 

Taking  old  gifts  and  granting  new. 
The  wisdom  of  the  present  hour 

Makes  up  for  follies  past  and  gone ; 
To  weakness  strength  succeeds,  and  power 

From  frailty  springs ;— Press  on  !  Pkess  on  ! 

Press  on  !  what  though  upon  the  ground 

Thy  love  has  been  poured  out  like  rain? 
That  happiness  is  always  found 

The  sweetest  that  is  born  of  pain. 
Oft  mid  the  forest's  deepest  glooms, 

A  bird  sings  from  some  blighted  tree; 
And  in  the  dreariest  desert  blooms 

A  never-dying  rose  for  thee. 

Therefore,  press  on  !  and  reach  the  goal. 

And  gain  the  prize,  and  wear  the  crown; 
Faint  not !  for  to  the  steadfast  soul, 

Come  wealth  and  honor  and  renown. 
To  thine  own  self  be  true,  and  keep 

Thy  mind  from  sloth,  thy  heart  from  soil ; 
Press  on  !  and  thou  shalt  surely  reap 

A  heavenly  harvest  for  thy  toil. 


SAVED.— JiiNNiK  Joy. 


Come  !    hurry  up,  Jim  ;  don't  you  see  the  moon  is  comin' 

out? 
What  makes  you  lag  so  far  behind?  D'ye  mind  what  you're 

about? 
I  want  to  reach  that  patch  of  corn  while  yet  the  moon  is  hid 
Beneath  the  clouds — now  start  your  pegs,  and  do  as  you  are 

bid. 

Jim  !  are  vou  crvin'? — now  for  shame,  you  chicken  hearted 

lad'! 
Don't  want  to  help  me  take  the  corn— don't  want  to  help 

your  dad  ? 
Old  Todd  won't  see  us  pick  the  ears — we'll  bag  five  bushel, 

clear ; 
We  cannot  starve;  I  ha'n't  a  cent,  I  spent  the  last  for  beer. 

You  needn't  be  afraid,  now,  Jim  !  there's  not  a  soul  around  ; 
'Tis  almost  midnight — Todd's  asleep,  and  so's  his  blooded 
hound. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  ^ 

I  allers  gin  you  credit,  lad,  for  being  bold  and  brave; 

And  I  have  hearn  you  say  that  fears  should  ne'er  make  you 

their  slave. 
I'll  let  you  have  a  dozen  ears— the  largest  that  we  take- 
To  feed  your  pig,  and  some  we'll  grind  to  make  a  Johnny- 
cake.  .     ,  1       XI  i 

I  owe  Sam  Stokes  a  little  bill  of  drinks,  and  other  traps ; 
The  rest  will  have  to  go  to  him-and  you  may  taste  my 

Schnapps. 
Now  jump  the  fence— and  mind  your  eye!   Don't  speak 

above  a  breath  ;  ,,,-,■. 

If  that  confounded  hound  should  wake,  he'd  be  our  very 

death.  ,        .  i  .  •         ^ 

I'm  glad  the  clouds  have  got  so  thick— the  night  is  pesky 

Now  here's  the  bag-what  is  it,  Jim?    I  thought  you  whis- 
pered— Hark ! 
The  clouds  are  scatterin'— there's  the  moon  !   Too  bad,  but 

We'll  fill  the  sacks,  and  hurry  home,  I'm  hankerin'  fur  some 

What  dkl^j^u  say,  Jim  ?-are  you  sure  ?   I  hope  it  ain't  old 

"  Look  up  "  d'ye  say  ?    ''we're  surely  seen;  we  cannot  hide  from 

Go'df" 
Jim!  Jim!    my  boy,  I  guess  you're  right;   here,  take  the 

'Tis  drhT\^hatT  brought  your  dad  to  this,  and  clothed  us 

both  in  rags.  ^er^r^A. 

It  was  not  fear  that  made  you  lag,  unless  twas  fear  ol  (yoa  , 
D'ye  think  he'd  hear  you  if  you  prayed  ?-I  do  not  mean 

old  Todd. 
"  Yesf  "  well,  kneel  down— my  words  are  rough,  too  rough 

for  such  as  he,  . 

But  may  be  he  will  hear  my  boy,  and  pity  even  me. 
I'll  taste  no  more  the  damning  stuff!    Take  heart,  poor,  sut- 

fering  lad ;  ,  i  j 

Thank  (i.).l!    your  prayer  has  blessed  my  soul-yes,  saved 

your  weak,  old  dad. 


THE  WORTH   OF  ELOQUENCE. 

Let  us  not,  gentlemen,  undervalue  the  art  of  the  ora- 
tor. Of  till  the  efforts  of  the  human  mind,  it  is  the  most 
astonishing  iu  its  nature,  and  the  most  transcendent  in 


10  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

its  immediate  triumphs.  The  wisdom  of  the  philoso- 
pher, the  eloquence  of  the  historian,  the  sagacity  of  the 
statesman,  the  capacity  of  the  general,  may  produce 
more  lasting  effects  upon  human  affairs ;  but  they  are 
incomparably  less  rapid  in  their  influence,  and  less  in- 
toxicating from  the  ascendency  they  confer.  In  the  sol- 
itude of  his  library,  the  sage  meditates  on  the  truths 
which  are  to  influence  the  thoughts  and  direct  the  con- 
duct of  men  in  future  times  ;  amid  the  strife  of  faction 
the  legislator  discerns  the  measures  calculated,  after  a 
long  course  of  years,  to  alleviate  existing  evils,  or  pro- 
duce happiness  yet  unborn  ;  during  long  and  wearisome 
campaigns  the  commander  throws  his  shield  over  the 
fortunes  of  his  country,  and  prepares  in  silence  and  amid 
obloquy  the  means  of  maintaining  its  independence.  But 
the  triumphs  of  the  orator  are  immediate;  his  influence 
is  instantly  felt ;  his,  and  his  alone,  it  is 

"The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  H  smiling  land, 

And  read  his  history  in  a  nation's  eyes  ! " 

"I  can  c6nceive,"  says  Cicero,  "of  no  accomplishment 
more  to  be  desired  than  to  be  able  to  captivate  the  affec- 
tions, charm  the  understanding,  and  direct  or  restrain, 
at  pleasure,  the  will  of  whole  assemblies.  This  single 
art  has,  amongst  every  free  people,  commanded  the 
greatest  encouragement,  and  been  attended  with  the 
most  surprising  effects.  For  what  can  be  more  astonish- 
ing, than  that  from  an  immense  multitude  one  man 
should  come  forth,  the  only,  or  almost  the  only  man  who 
can  do  what  nature  has  made  attainable  by  all?  Or  can 
anything  impart  to  the  ears  and  the  understanding  a 
pleasure  so  pure  as  a  discourse  which  at  once  delights 
by  its  elocution,  enlists  the  passions  by  its  rhetoric,  and 
carries  captive  the  conviction  by  its  logic  ? 

"  What  triumph  more  noble  and  magnificent  than  that 
of  the  eloquence  of  one  man,  swaying  the  inclinations  of 
the  people,  the  consciences  of  judges,  and  the  majesty  of 
senates  ?     Nay,  farther,  can  aught  be  esteemed  so  grand, 


NUMBER   FIVE.  11 

SO  generous,  SO  public-spirited,  as  to  relieve  the  suppliant, 
to  raise  up  the  prostrate,  to  communicate  happiness,  to 
avert  danger,  to  save  a  fellow-citizen  from  exile  and 
wroniz  ?  Can  auoht  be  more  desirable  than  to  have 
always  ready  those  weapons  wiih  which  we  can  at  once 
defend  the  weak,  assail  the  profligate,  and  redress  our 
own  or  our  country's  injuries? 

"  But,  apart  from  the  utility  of  this  art  in  the  forum, 
the  rostrum,  the  senate,  and  on  the  bench,  can  any- 
thing in  retirement  from  business  be  more  delightful, 
more  socially  endearing,  than  a  language  and  elocution 
agreea'ble  and  polished  on  every  subject?  For  the  great 
characteristic  of  our  nature — that  which  distinguishes  us 
from  brutes — is  our  capacity  of  social  intercourse,  our 
ability  to  convey  our  ideas  by  words.  Ought  it  not,  then, 
to  be  pre-eminently  our  study  to  excel  mankind  in  that 
very  faculty  which  constitutes  their  superiority  over 
brutes  ? 

"  Upon  the  eloquence  and  spirit  of  an  accomplished 
orator  may  often  depend,  not  only  his  own  dignity,  but 
the  welfare  of  a  government,  nay,  of  a  people.  Go  on, 
then,  ye  who  would  attain  this  inestimable  art.  Ply  the 
study  you  have  in  hand,  pursue  it  with  singleness  of  pur- 
pose, at  once  for  your  own  h(mor,  for  the  advantage  of 
your  friends,  and  for  the  service  of  your  country." 


THE  SLIGHT  MISUNDERSTANDING. 

Not  long  since  a  sober  middle-aged  gentleman  was 
quietly  dozing  in  one  of  our  railroad  trains,  when  his 
pleasant,  drowsy  meditations  were  suddenly  interrupted 
by  the  sharp  voice  of  the  individual  by  his  side.  This 
Wiis  no  less  a  personage  than  a  dandified,  liot-blooded, 
inquisitive  Frenchman,  who  raised  his  hairy  visage  close 
to  that  of  the  gentleman  he  addressed. 

"Pardonnez,  sare ;  but  vat  you  do  viz  ze  pictair — 
hein  f  " 


12  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICK    SELKCTIONS 

As  he  spoke,  monsieur  pointed  to  some  beautiful  steel 
plate  engravings,  in  frames,  which  the  quiet  gentleman 
held  in  his  lap,  and  which  suited  the  fancy  of  the  little 
French  connoisseur  precisely. 

The  quiet  gentleman  looked  at  the  inquisitive  foreigner 
with  a  scowl  which  he  meant  to  be  very  forbidding,  and 
made  no  reply.  The  Frenchman,  nothing  daunted,  once 
more  approached  his  hairy  visage  into  that  of  his  com- 
panion, and  repeated  the  question. 

"  Vat  you  do  viz  ze  pictair — hein  f  " 

"  I  am  taking  them  to  Salem,"  replied  the  quiet  gen- 
tleman, gruffly. 

"  Ha  !  you  take  'em  to  sell  'em  !  "  chimed  in  the  shrill 
voice  of  the  Frenchman.  "  I  be  glad  of  zat,  I  like  ze  pic- 
tair.    I  buy  'em  of  you,  sare.     How  much  you  ask  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  for  sale  !  "  replied  the  sleepy  gentle- 
man— more  thoroughly  awake,  by-the-by,  and  not  a  lit- 
tle irritated. 

"Hein  f  "  grunted  monsieur,  in  astonishment.  "  Vat 
you  say,  sare  ?  " 

"  I  say  I  don't  want  to  sell  the  pictures !  "  cried  the 
other,  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"Peste!  c'est  drole  !"  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  his 
eye  beginning  to  flash  with  passion.  "  It  is  one  strange 
circumstance,  parbleu!  I  ask  you  vat  you  do  viz  ze  pic- 
tair, and  you  say  you  take  'em  to  sell  'em,  and  zen  you 
vill  not  sell  'em  !     Vat  you  mean,  sare — hein  ?  " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  replied  the  other,  sharply.  "  I 
don't  want  to  sell  the  engravings,  and  I  didn't  say  I  did." 

"Morbleu  !  "  sputtered  monsieur,  in  a  tone  loud  enough 
to  attract  the  attention  of  those  of  his  fellow  travelers 
who  were  not  already  listening;  "morbleu!  you  mean  to 
say  I  'ave  not  any  ear?  Non,  monsieur,  I  hear  ver'  well 
vat  you  tell  me.  You  say  you  sell  ze  pictair.  Is  it  be- 
cause I  one  Frenchman,  zat  you  will  not  sell  me  ze  pic- 
tair?" 

The  irritated  gentleman,  hoping  to  rid  himself  of  the 
annoyance,  turned  his  back  upon  his  assailant,  and  made 
no  reply. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  13 

But  raousieur  was  not  to  be  put  off  thus.  He  laid  his 
haud  uu  the  shoulder  of  the  other,  aud  showing  his  small 
white  teeth,  exclaimed — 

"Monsieur,  zis  is  too  much.  You've  give  me  one  in- 
sult, and  I  shall  'ave  satisfaction."  Still  no  reply.  "  Mon- 
sieur," continued  the  Frenchman,  "you  are  not  one  gen- 
tleman, I  shall  call  you  one  poltroon,  vat  you  call  'em  ? — 
coward !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  retorted  the  other,  afraid  the 
aff.iir  Avas  getting  serious;  "  I  haven't  insulted  you,  sir." 

"  Pardouuez,  monsieur,  but  it  is  one  grand  insult !  In 
Am  jrica,  perhaps  not ;  but  in  France,  one  blow  your 
br.iins  out." 

"  For  what,  pray  ?  " 

"  For  vat  ?  Parbleu  f  you  call  me  one  menteur — how 
you  speak  'em — liar  !    You  call  me  one  liar !  " 

"  Oh  no,  sir.     You  misunderstood " 

"No,  sare!  I've  got  ears.  You  say  you  vill  sell  ze 
pictair ;  and  ven  I  tell  you  vat  you  say,  you  say  ze  con- 
trarie — zat  is  not  so  ! " 

"  Bat  I  didn't  tell  you  I  would  sell  the  pictures,"  re- 
monstrated the  man  with  the  engravings,  beginning  to 
faal  alarmed  at  the  passion  manifested  by  the  other. 
"  You  misunderstood  " 

"  I  tell  you  no !  It  is  not  posseebl'  !  When  I  ask  you 
vat  you  do  viz  ze  pictair,  vat  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  was  taking  them  to  Salem." 

"  Yes,  parbleu  !  "  exclaimed  monsieur,  more  angry 
than  ever,  "  you  say  you  take  'era  to  sell  'em " 

"  No,  no  !  "  interrupted  the  other,  "not  to  sell  them,  but 
Silem — 'the  City  of  Salem." 

"  Ze  city  of  Sell  'em  !  "  exclaimed  the  Frenchman, 
amid  the  roars  of  laughter  that  greeted  his  ears.  "Zat  is 
one  grand  mistake.  Pardon,  monsieur!  Que  je  suis 
bete!  The  city  of  Sell  'em?  Ha-ha!  I  will  remember 
zat  mistake!"  And  he  stroked  his  moustache  with  his 
fingers,  wliile  tlu^  man  with  the  engravings  once  more 
gave  way  to  his  drowsy  inclinations. 


14  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  DYING  BRIGAND. 

She  stood  before  the  dying  man, 

And  her  eye  grew  wildly  bright: 
"Ye  will  not  pause  for  a  woman's  ban, 

Nor  shrink  from  a  woman's  might ; 
And  his  glance  is  dim  that  made  you  fly, 

As  ye  before  have  fled : 
Look,  dastards!  how  the  brave  can  die — 

Beware !  he  is  not  dead  ! 

"  By  his  blood  you've  tracked  him  to  his  lair  ! 

Would  you  bid  the  spirit  part? 
He  that  durst  harm  one  single  hair 

Must  reach  it  through  my  heart. 
I  cannot  weep,  for  my  brain  is  dry ; 

Nor  plead,  for  I  know  not  how  ; 
But  my  aim  is  sure,  and  the  shaft  may  fly, 

And  the  bubbling  life-blood  flow ! 

"  Yet  leave  me,  while  dim  life  remains, 

To  list  his  partiHg  sigh  ; 
To  kiss  away  those  gory  stains. 

To  close  his  beamless  eye  ! 
Ye  will  not!  no— he  triumphs  still. 

Whose  foes  his  death-pangs  dread  ; 
His  was  the  power,  yours  but  the  will — 

Back,  back,  he  is  not  dead ! 

"His  was  the  power  that  held  in  thrall, 

Through  many  a  glorious  year. 
Priests,  burghers,  nobles,  princes — all 

Slaves  worship,  hate,  or  fear. 
Wrongs,  insults,  injuries  thrust  him  forth 

A  bandit-chief  to  dwell ; 
How  he  avenged  his  slighted  worth, 

Ye,  cravens,  best  may  tell ! 

"  His  spirit  lives  in  the  mountain  breath. 

It  flows  in  the  mountain  wave ; 
Rock— stream— hath  done  the  work  of  death 

Yon  deep  ravine— the  grave ! 
That  which  hath  been  again  may  be! 

Ah !  by  yon  fleeting  sun, 
Who  stirs,  no  morning  ray  shall  see — 

His  sand  of  life  has  run  !  " 


NUMBEEFIVE.  16 

Defiance  shone  in  her  flashing  eye. 

But  her  heart  beat  wild  with  fear ; 
She  starts — the  bandit's  last  faint  sigh 

Breathes  on  her  sharpened  ear. 
She  gazes  on  each  stiliening  limb, 

And  the  death-damp  chills  her  brow: 
"  For  him  I  lived — I  die  with  him  I 

Slaves,  do  your  office  now  1 " 


OUR  FOLKS— Ethel  Lynn. 

"  Hi !  Harry  Holly  I  Halt —and  tell 

A  fellow  just  a  thing  or  two  ; 
You've  had  a  furlough,  been  to  see 

How  all  the  folks  in  Jersey  do. 
It's  months  ago  since  I  was  there, — 

I,  and  a  bullet  from  Fair  Oaks, 
When  you  were  home,  old  comi-ade,  say, 

Did  you  see  any  of  our  folks  ? 

"  You  did  ?    Shake  hands, — oh,  aint  I  glad ; 

For  if  I  do  look  grim  and  rough, 
I've  got  some  feelin' — people  think 

A  soldier's  heart  is  mighty  tough  ; 
But,  Harry,  when  the  bullets  fly, 

And  hot  saltpetre  flames  and  smokes, 
While  whole  battalions  lie  afield, 

One's  apt  to  think  about  his  folks. 

"And  so  you  saw  them— when  ?  and  where  ? 

The  old  man — is  he  hearty  yet? 
And  mother — does  she  fade  at  all  ? 

Or  does  she  seem  to  pine  and  fret 
For  me  ?    And  Sis  ?— has  she  grown  tall  ? 
And  did  you  see  her  friend— you  know. 

That  Annie  Moss— (how  this  pipe  chokes!) 
Where  did  you  see  her — tell  me,  Hal, 

A  lot  of  news  about  our  folks. 

"  You  saw  them  in  the  church,  you  say ; 

It's  likely,  for  they're  always  there. 
Not  Sunday ?  No ?    A  funeral?     Who? 

Who,  Harry  ?  How  you  shake  and  stare! 
^11  well,  you  say,  and  all  were  out. 

What  ails  you,  Hal  ?    Is  this  a  hoax  ? 

BB 


16  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Why  don't  you  tell  me,  like  a  man, 
What  is  the  matter  with  our  folks?" 

"  I  said  all  well,  old  comrade,  true ; 

I  say  all  well,  for  He  knows  best 
Who  takes  the  young  ones  in  his  arms, 

Before  the  sun  goes  to  the  west. 
The  axe-man  Death  deals  left  and  right, 

And  flowers  fall  as  well  as  oaks ; 
And  so— fair  Annie  blooms  no  more ! 

And  that's  the  matter  with  your  folks. 

"  See,  this  long  curl  was  kept  for  you ; 

And  this  white  blossom  from  her  breast; 
And  here— your  sister  Bessie  wrote 

A  letter,  telling  all  the  rest. 
Bear  up,  old  friend."     Nobody  speaks; 

Only  the  old  camp-raven  croaks. 
And  soldiers  whisper  :     "  Boys,  be  still ; 

There's  some  bad  news  from  Grainger's  folks.' 

He  turns  bis  back — the  only  foe 

That  ever  saw  it  -on  this  grief. 
And,  as  men  will,  keeps  down  the  tears 

Kind  nature  sends  to  woe's  relief. 
Then  answers  he,  "Ah,  Hal,  I'll  try  ; 

But  in  my  throat  there's  something  chokes, 
Because,  you  see,  I've  thought  so  long 

To  count  her  in  among  our  folks. 

"  I  s'pose  she  must  be  happy  now, 

But  still  I  will  keep  thinking,  too, 
I  could  have  kept  all  trouble  off. 

By  being  tender,  kind,  and  true. 
But  maybe  not.    She's  safe  up  there, 

And  when  His  hand  deals  other  strokes, 
She'll  stand  by  heaven's  gate,  I  know, 

And  wait  to  welcome  in  our  folks." 


A  CHILD'S   DREAM  OF  A  STAR. 
Charles  Dickens. 
There  was  once  a  child,  and  he  strolled  about  a  good 
deal,  and  thought  of  a  number  of  things.    He  had  a  sis- 
ter who  was  a  child,  too,  and  his  constant  corapanion. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  17 

These  two  used  to  wonder  all  day  long.  They  wondered 
at  the  beauty  of  the  fl(jwers  ;  they  wondered  at  the  height 
and  blueness  of  the  sky  ;  they  wondered  at  the  depth  of 
the  bright  water ;  they  wondered  at  the  goodness  and 
the  power  of  God,  who  made  the  lovely  world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another,  sometimes :  Suppos- 
ing all  the  children  upon  earth  were  to  die,  would  the 
flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the  sky  be  sorry  ?  They  be- 
lieved they  would  be  sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds  are 
the  children  of  the  flowers,  and  the  little  playful  streams 
that  gambol  down  the  hillsides  are  the  children  of  the 
water,  and  the  smallest  bright  specks  playing  at  hide 
and  seek  in  the  sky  all  night  must  surely  be  the  children 
of  the  stars;  and  ttey  would  all  be  grieved  to  see  their 
playuiates,  the  children  of  men,  no  more. 

There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that  used  to  come  out 
in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near  the  church  spire,  above 
the  graves.  It  was  larger  and  more  beautiful,  they 
thought,  than  all  the  others,  and  every  night  they 
watched  for  it,  standing  hand-in-hand  at  a  window. 
"Whoever  saw  it  fii'st,  cried  out,  "I  see  the  star."  And 
often,  they  cried  out  both  together,  knowing  so  well 
when  it  would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to  be  such 
friends  with  it  that,  before  laying  d  )\vn  in  their  bed, 
they  always  looked  out  once  again  to  bid  it  good  night ; 
and  when  they  were  turning  round  to  sleep,  they  used 
to  say,  "  God  bless  the  star  !  " 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  oh,  very,  very 
young,  the  sister  drooped,  and  came  to  be  so  weak  that  she 
could  no  longer  stand  in  the  window  at  night,  and  then 
the  child  looked  sadly  out  by  himself,  and  when  he  saw 
the  star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient  pale  face 
on  the  bed,  "  I  sec  the  star!  "  and  then  a  smile  would 
come  upon  the  face,  and  a  little  weak  voice  used  to  say, 
"  God  bless  my  brother  and  the  star !  " 
-'  And  so  the  time  came,  all  too  soon,  when  the  child 
looked  out  alone,  and  when  there  was  no  face  on  the  bed, 
and  when  there  was  a  little  grave  among  the  graves,  not 


18*  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

there  before,  and  when  the  star  made  long  rays  down 
towards  him,  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and  they  seemed  to 
make  such  a  shining  way  from  earth  to  heaven,  that 
when  the  child  went  to  his  solitary  bed,  he  dreamed 
about  the  star ;  and  dreamed  that,  lying  where  he  was, 
he  saw  a  train  of  people  taken  up  that  sparkling  road 
by  angels.  And  the  star,  opening,  showed  him  a  great 
world  of  light,  where  many  more  such  angels  waited  to 
receive  them. 

All  these  angels,  who  were  waiting,  turned  their  beam- 
ing eyes  upon  the  people  who  were  carried  up  into  the 
star ;  and  some  came  out  from  the  long  rows  in  which 
they  stood,  and  fell  upon  the  people's  necks,  and  kissed 
them  tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them  down  avenues 
of  light,  and  were  so  happy  in  their  company,  that  lying 
in  his  bed  he  wept  for  joy. 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go  with  them, 
and  among  them  one  he  knew.  The  patient  face  that 
once  had  lain  upon  the  bed  was  glorified  and  radiant, 
but  his  heart  found  out  his  sister  among  all  the  host. 

His  sister's  ancjel  lingrered  near  the  entrance  of  the 
star,  and  said  to  the  leader  among  those  who  had  brought 
the  people  thither:    "  Is  my  brother  come?  " 

And  he  said,  "  No !  " 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the  child 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  sister,  I  am  here ! 
Take  me  !  "  And  then  she  turned  her  beaming  eyes 
upon  him, — and  it  was  night ;  and  the  star  was  shining 
into  the  room,  making  long  rays  down  towards  him  as 
he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth,  the  child  looked  out  upon  the 
star  as  the  home  he  was  to  go  to  when  his  time  should 
come ;  and  he  thought  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the 
earth  alone,  but  to  the  star,  too,  because  of  his  sister's 
an2;el  gone  before. 

There  was  a  baby  born  to  be  a  brother  to  the  child, 
and,  while  he  was  so  little  that  he  never  yet  had  spokeu 


NUMBER  FIVE.  19 

a  word,  he  stretched  his  tiny  form  out  on  his  bed,  and 
died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star,  and  of 
the  company  of  angels,  and  the  train  of  people,  and  tlie 
rows  of  angels,  with  their  beaming  eyes  all  turned  upon 
those  people's  faces. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader :  "  Is  my  brother 
come  ?  " 

And  he  said,  "  Not  that  one,  but  another ! " 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother's  angel  in  her  arms, 
he  cried,  "  Oh,  my  sister,  I  am  here!  Take  me?"  And 
she  turned  and  smiled  upon  him — and  the  star  was 
shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  young  man,  and  was  busy  at  his  books, 
when  an  old  servant  came  to  him  and  said :  "  Thy  moth- 
er is  no  more.     I  bring  her  blessing  on  her  darling  son." 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that  former 
company.  Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "  Is  my 
brother  come  ?  " 

And  he  said,     "  Thy  mother !  " 

A  mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all  the  star, 
because  the  mother  was  re-united  to  her  two  children. 
And  he  stretched  out  his  hands  and  cried,  "  Oh,  mother, 
sister,  and  brother,  I  am  here !  Take  me  ! "  And  they 
answered  him,  "  Not  yet !  " — and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  man,  whose  hair  was  turning  gray, 
and  he  was  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy 
with  grief,  and  with  his  face  beiewed  with  tears,  when 
the  star  opened  once  again. 

Said  liis  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "  Is  my  brother 
come?  " 

And  he  said,  "  Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter !  " 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child  saw  his  daugh- 
ter, newly  lost  to  him,  a  celestial  creature  among  those 
three,  and  he  said  :  "  My  daughter's  head  is  on  my  sis- 
ter's bosom,  and  her  arm  is  around  my  mother's  neck, 
and  at  her  feet  is  the  bal)y  of  old  time,  and  I  can  bear 
the  parting  from  her,  God  be  praised  1 " — And  the  star 
was  shining. 


20  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old  man,  and  his  once 
smooth  face  was  wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slow  and 
feeble,  and  his  back  was  bent.  And  one  night  as  he  lay 
upon  his  bed,  his  children  standij^g  round,  he  cried,  as 
he  had  cried  so  long  ago  :     "  I  see  the  star  1  " 

They  whispered  one  another,  "  He  is  dying."  And  he 
said,  "  I  am.  My  age  is  falling  from  me  like  a  garment, 
and  I  move  towards  the  star  as  a  child.  And  O  my 
Father,  now  I  thank  Thee  that  it  has  so  often  opened  to 
receive  those  dear  ones  who  await  me !  " — 

And  the  star  was  shining  ;  and  it  shines  upon  his  grave. 


THE   WHISKERS.- Samuel  Woodwortfi. 

The  kings  who  ruled  mankind  with  haughty  sway, 
The  prouder  pope,  whom  even  kings  obey, 
Love,  at  whose  shrine  both  popes  and  monarchs  fall. 
And  e'en  self  interest,  that  controls  them  all. 
Possess  a  petty  power,  when  all  combined. 
Compared  with  fashion's  influence  on  mankind — 
For  love  itself  will  oft  to  fashion  bow ; 
The  following  story  will  convince  you  how: 

A  petit-maUre  wooed  a  fair. 
Of  virtue,  wealth,  and  graces  rare ; 
But  vainly  had  preferred  his  claim. 
The  maiden  owned  no  answering  flame; 
At  length  by  doubt  and  anguish  torn. 
Suspense  too  jjainful  to  be  borne. 
Low  at  lier  feet  he  humbly  kneeled, 
And  thus  his  ardent  fiame  revealed : 

"  Pity  my  grief,  angelic  fair. 
Behold  my  anguish  and  despair  ; 
For  you,  this  heart  must  ever  burn — 
Oh  bless  me  with  a  kind  return ! 
My  love,  no  language  can  express, 
Reward  it  then,  with  happiness; 
Nothing  on  earth  but  you  I  prize, 
All  else  is  trifling  in  my  eyes ; 
And  cheerfully  would  I  resign 
The  wealth  of  worlds  to  call  you  mine. 


NUMBER   FIVE. 


?1 


But,  if  another  gain  your  hand, 
Far  distant  from  my  native  land, 
Far  hence  from  you  and  hope  I'll  fly, 
And  in  some  foreign  region  die." 

The  virgin  heard,  and  thus  replied : 
"  If  my  consent  to  be  your  bride 
Will  make  you  happy,  then  be  blest; 
But  grant  me,  first,  one  small  request ; 
A  sacrifice  I  must  demand, 
And  in  return  will  give  my  hand." 

"A  sacrifice !    Oh  speak  its  name ! 
For  you  I'd  forfeit  wealth  and  fame ; 
Take  my  whole  fortune,  every  cent — " 

"  'Twas  something  more  than  wealth  I  meant." 

"  Must  I  the  realms  of  Neptune  trace  ? 
Oh  speak  the  word !  Where'er  the  place— 
For  you,  the  idol  of  my  soul, 
I'd  e'en  explore  the  frozen  pole ; 
Arabia's  sandy  deserts  tread, 
Or  trace  the  Tigris  to  its  head." 

"  Oh,  no,  dear  sir,  I  do  not  ask 
So  long  a  voyage,  so  hard  a  task  ; 
You  must— but  ah  !  the  boon  I  want, 
I  have  no  hoi)e  that  you  will  grant." 

"  Shall  I,  like  Bonaparte,  aspire 
To  be  the  world's  imperial  sire  ? 
Express  the  wish,  and  here  I  vow, 
To  place  a  crown  upon  your  brow." 

"  Sir,  these  are  trifles,"  she  replied ; 
"  But,  if  you  wish  me  for  your  bride, 
You  must— but  still  I  fear  to  speak. 
You'll  never  grant  the  boon  I  seek." 

"  Oh  say,"  he  cried,  "dear  angel,  say 

What  must  I  do,  and  I  obey ; 

No  longer  rack  me  with  sus{>ense, 

Speak  your  commands,  and  send  me  hence." 

"  Well,  then,  dear  generous  y<juth  ! "  she  cries. 

"  If  thus  my  heart  you  really  prize, 

And  wish  to  link  your  fate  with  mine, 

On  one  condition  I  am  thine ; 


22  ONE    HUNDRED    CH  OI CE    SELECT  IONS 

Twill  then  become  my  pleasing  duty. 
To  contemplate  a  husband's  beauty; 
And,  gazing  on  his  manly  face, 
His  feeUngs  and  his  wishes  trace  ; 
To  banish  thence  each  mark  of  care, 
And  light  a  smile  of  pleasure  there. 
Oh  let  me,  then,  'tis  all  I  ask, 
Commence  at  once  the  pleasing  task  I 
Oh  let  me,  as  becomes  my  place, 
Cut  those  huge  whiskers  from  your  face ! " 

She  said— but  oh !  what  strange  surprise 

Was  pictured  in  her  lover's  eyes ! 

Like  lightning  from  the  ground  he  sprung, 

While  wild  amazement  tied  his  tongue : 

A  statue,  motionless,  he  gazed, 

Astonished,  horror-struck,  amazed. 

So  looked  the  gallant  Perseus,  when 

Medusa's  visage  met  his  ken  ; 

So  looked  Macbeth,  whose  guilty  eye 

Discerned  an  "air-drawn  dagger"  nigh ; 

And  so,  the  Prince  of  Denmark  stared. 

When  lirst  his  father's  ghost  appeared. 

At  length  our  hero  silence  broke. 

And  thus  in  wildest  accents  spoke : 

"  Cut  off  my  whiskers!    O  ye  gods! 

I'd  sooner  lose  my  ears,  by  odds ; 

Madam,  Fd  not  be  so  disgraced. 

So  lost  to  fashion  and  to  taste. 

To  win  an  empress  to  my  arms, 

Though  blest  with  more  than  mortal  charms. 

My  whiskers !  zounds  !  "  He  said  no  more, 

But  quick  retreated  through  the  door, 

And  sought  a  less  obdurate  fair. 

To  take  the  beau  with  all  his  hair. 


JOHN  MAYNARD.— Horatio  Alger,  Jb, 

*Twas  on  Lake  Erie's  broad  expanse 
One  bright  midsummer  day. 

The  gallant  steamer  Ocean  Queen 
Swept  proudly  on  her  way. 


SUMBEB  FIVE. 

Bright  faces  clustered  on  the  deck, 

Or,  leaning  o'er  the  side. 
Watched  carelessly  the  feathery  foam 

That  flecked  the  rippling  tide. 

Ah,  who  beneath  that  cloudless  sky, 

That  smiling  bends  serene, 
Could  dream  that  danger,  awful,  vast, 

Impended  o'er  tlie  scene  ; 
Could  dream  tliat  ere  an  hour  had  sped 

That  frame  of  sturdy  oak 
"Would  sink  beneath  the  lake's  blue  waves, 

Blackened  with  fire  and  smoke? 

A  seaman  sought  the  captain's  side, 

A  moment  whispered  low; 
The  captain's  swarthy  face  grew  pale ; 

He  hurried  down  below. 
Alas,  too  late  !    Though  quick,  and  sharp, 

And  clear  his  orders  came, 
No  human  eflbrts  could  avail 

To  quench  th'  insidious  flame. 

The  bad  news  quickly  reached  the  deck, 

It  sped  from  lip  to  lip. 
And  ghastly  faces  everywhere 

Looked  from  the  doomed  ship. 
"  Is  there  no  hope,  no  chance  of  life?  " 

A  hundred  lips  implore ; 
"  But  one,"  the  captain  made  reply, 

"  To  run  the  ship  on  shore." 

A  sailor,  whose  heroic  soul 

That  hour  should  yet  reveal. 
By  name  John  Maynard,  eastern-born, 

Stood  calmly  at  the  wheel. 
"  Head  her  south-east !  "  the  captain  shouts, 

Above  the  smothered  roar, 
"  Head  her  south-east  without  delay  ! 

Make  for  the  nearest  shore !  " 

No  terror  pales  the  helmsman's  cheek, 

Or  clouds  his  dauntless  eye, 
As,  in  a  sailor's  measured  tone. 

His  voice  responds,  "Ay  !  ay  !  " 
Three  hundred  souls,  the  steamer's  freight. 

Crowd  forward  wild  with  fear, 

liii* 


23 


i 


24  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

While  at  the  stern  the  dreaded  flames  n 

Above  the  deck  appear, 

John  Maynard  watched  the  nearing  flames, 

But  still  with  steady  hand 
He  graaped  the  wheel,  and  steadfastly 

He  steered  the  ship  to  land. 
"  John  Maynard,  can  you  still  hold  out  ?  " 

He  heard  the  captain  cry  ; 
A  voice  from  out  the  stifling  smoke 

Faintly  responds,  "Ay  I  ay  !  " 

But  half  a  mile  !  a  hundred  hands 

Stretdi  eagerly  to  shore. 
But  half  a  mile!     That  distance  sped 

Peril  sliall  all  be  o'er. 
But  half  a  mile!    Yet  stay,  the  flames 

No  longer  slowly  creep, 
But  gather  round  that  helmsman  bold, 

With  fierce,  impetuous  sweep. 

"John  Maynard!  "  with  an  anxious  voice 

The  captain  cries  once  mure, 
"Stand  by  the  wheel  five  minutes  yet. 

And  we  shall  reach  the  shore." 
Through  flame  and  smoke  that  dauntless  heart 

Responded  firmly  still, 
Unawed,  though  face  to  face  "with  death, 

"  With  God's  good  help  I  will ! " 

The  flames  approach  with  giant  strides, 

They  scorch  his  hand  and  brow; 
One  arm,  disabled,  seeks  his  side, 

Ah  !  he  is  conquered  now\ 
But  no,  his  teeth  are  firmly  set. 

He  crushes  down  his  pain. 
His  knee  upon  the  stanchion  pressed. 

He  guides  the  ship  again. 

One  moment  yet !  one  moment  yet! 

Brave  heart,  thy  task  is  o'er, 
The  pebbles  grate  beneath  the  keel. 

The  steamer  touches  shore. 
Three  hundred  grateful  voices  rise 

In  praise  to  God  that  he 
Hath  saved  them  from  the  fearful  fire, 

And  from  the  engulfing  sea. 


NUMBER    FIVE. 


25 


But  where  is  he,  that  helmsman  bold  ? 

The  captain  saw  him  reel, 
His  nerveless  hands  released  their  task. 

He  sank  beside  the  wheel. 
The  wave  received  his  lifeless  corse. 

Blackened  with  smoke  and  fire. 
God  rest  him !     Never  hero  had 

A  nobler  funeral  pj-re ! 


DEEDS  VERSUS  CREEDS.— Annie  I.  Mczzky. 

Once,  seeking  truth,  I  wholly  lost  my  way ; 

Rocked  back  and  forward,  by  the  swinging  tides 
Of  doubt  and  faith,  confused  by  many  guides; 

Each  one  armed  with  a  doctrine  and  a  creed 
Which  each  felt  sale  to  say 

Would  meet  and  satisfy  my  every  need. 

And  one  claimed  Jesus  was  the  son  of  God ; 

And  one  denied  that  he  was  more  than  man; 

One  scented  wrath  in  the  redeeming  plan ; 
One  dwelt  upon  its  mercy  and  its  love;     . 

One  threatened  with  the  rod ; 
One  wooed  me  with  the  cooings  of  a  dove. 

And  whether  souls  were  foreordained  to  bliss ; 

And  whether  faith,  or  works  were  strong  to  save; 

And  whether  judgment  lay  beyond  the  grave. 
And  love,  with  pardoning  power,  went  down  to  hell ; 

Whether  that  road  or  this 
Led  up  to  heaven's  gate,  I  could  not  tell. 

Amid  this  dust  of  theologic  strife, 

I  hungered  with  a  want  unsatisfied. 

Heaven  while  I  lived,  not  heaven  when  I  died, 
Was  wiiat  I  (graved  ;  and  how  to  make  sublime 

And  beautiful  ray  life. 
While  yet  I  lingered  on  the  shores  of  time. 

To  judgment  swift  my  guides  in  doctrine  came  ; 
Which  one  lived  out  the  royal  truths  he  preached^ 
Which  one  loved  mercy,  and  ne'er  overreached 

His  weaker  brother?     And  which  one  forgot 
His  own  in  otlier's  claim, 

^nd  put  self  last  ?    I  souglit,  but  found  him  not; 


26  ONE    nCNDRED   CHOICE  SK  LECTIONS 

And  wept  and  railed  because  religion  seemed 
Only  the  thin  ascending  smoke  of  words, 
The  jangling  rude  of  inharmonious  chords ; 

Until— my  false  inductions  to  disprove- 
Across  my  vision  streamed 

The  glory  of  a  life  aflame  with  love. 

One  who  was  silent  while  his  brethren  taught. 
And  showed  me  not  the  beauties  of  his  creed. 
But  went  before  me,  sowing  silent  seed 

That  made  the  waste  and  barren  desert  glad  ; 
Whose  hand  in  secret  brouglit 

Healing  and  comfoit  to  the  sick  and  sad. 

Aglow,  I  cried,  "  Here  all  my  questionings  end ; 
Oh,  what  is  thy  religion,  thy  belief?  " 
Smiling,  he  shook  his  head  with  answer  brief- 

This  man  so  swift  to  act,  so  slow  to  speak — 
"In  deeds  not  creeds,  my  friend, 

Lives  the  religion  that  I  humbly  seek." 

And  soft  and  sweet  upon  my  spirit  stole 
The  rest  and  peace  so  long  and  vainly  sought; 
And  though  I  mourn  the  graces  I  have  not 

If  1  may  help  my  brother  in  his  need, 
And  love  him  as  my  soul, — 

I  trust  God's  pardon  if  I  have  no  creed. 


A  RAILROAD  CAR   SCENE. 

On  the  road  from  Springfield  to  Boston,  I  ran  across 
what  first  struck  me  as  a  very  singular  genius.  This 
was  a  stout,  black-whiskered  man  who  sat  immediately 
ill  front  of  me,  and  who  indulged  from  time  to  time,  in 
the  most  strange  and  unaccountable  raanoeuvers.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  get  up,  and  hurry  away  to  the 
narrow  passage  which  leads  to  the  door  in  these  drawing- 
room  cars,  and  when  he  thought  himself  secure  from  ob- 
servation would  fill  to  lauo-hinf:;  in  the  most  violent  man- 
ner,  and  continue  the  healthful  exercise  until  he  was  as 
red  in  the  face  as  a  lobster. 

As  we  neared  Boston  these  demonstrations  increased 


NUMBKR   FIVK.  27 

in  violence  save  that  the  stranger  no  longer  ran  away 
to  laugh;  but  kept  his  seat  and  chuckled  to  himself,  with 
his  chin  down  deep  in  his  shirt  collar.  But  the  changes 
that  those  portmanteaus  underwent!  He  moved  them  here, 
there — he  put  them  behind  him.  He  was  evidently  get- 
ting ready  to  leave,  but  as  we  were  twenty-five  miles  from 
Boston,  the  idea  of  such  early  preparations  was  ridicu- 
lous. If  we  had  entered  the  city  then,  the  mystery 
would  have  remained  unsolved,  but  the  stranger  became 
80  excited  that  he  could  keep  his  seat  no  longer.  Some 
one  must  help  him,  and  as  I  was  the  nearest  to  him  he 
selected  me.  Suddenly  turning  as  if  I  had  asked  a  ques- 
tion, he  said,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro  in  his  chair  in 
the  meantime,  and  slapping  his  legs  together  and  breath- 
ing hard  : 

"  Been  gone  three  years !  " 

"Ah !  " 

"  Yes,  been  in  Europe.  Folks  don't  expect  me  for 
three  months  yet,  but  I  got  through  and  started.  I  tele- 
gra{)hed  them  at  the  last  station — they've  got  it  by  this 
time." 

As  he  said  this  he  rubbed  his  hands,  and  changed  the 
portmanteau  on  his  left  to  the  right,  and  the  one  on 
the  right  to  the  left  again. 

"Got  a  wife?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  and  three  children,"  he  returned. 

He  then  got  up  and  folded  his  overcoat  anew,  and 
hung  it  over  the  back  of  the  seat. 

"  You  are  pretty  nervous  over  the  matter,  aint  you  ?  " 
I  said,  watching  his  fidgety  movements. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  so,"  he  replied,  "I  haint  slept 
soundly  for  a  week.  And  do  you  know,"  he  went  on, 
glancing  around  at  the  passengers  and  speaking  in  a  low 
tone,  "  I  am  almost  certain  this  train  will  run  off  the 
track  and  break  my  nock  before  I  got  to  Boston.  Well, 
the  fact  is,  I  have  had  too  much  good  luck  for  one  num 
lately.  The  thing  can't  last ;  taint  natural  that  it  should, 
you  know.    I've  watched  it.    First  it  rains,  then  it  shines, 


28  ONE   HUNUnED    CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

then  it  rains  again.  It  rains  so  hard  you  think  it's  never 
going  to  stop ;  then  it  shines  so  bright  you  think  it's  al- 
ways going  to  shine  ;  and  just  as  you  are  settled  in  either 
belief,  you  are  knocked  over  by  a  change,  to  show  that 
you  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  Well,  according  to  the  philosophy,"  I  said,  "you  will 
continue  to  have  sunshine,  because  you  are  expecting  a 
storm." 

"  It's  curious,"  he  returned,  "  but  the  only  thing  which 
makes  me  think  I  will  get  through  safe  is,  because  I 
think  I  wont." 

"  Well !  tUis  is  curious,"  said  I. 

"  Why,  yes!  "  he  replied.  "  I  am  a  machinist — made 
a  discovery — nobody  believed  in  it — spent  all  my  money 
trying  to  bring  it  out — mortgaged  my  home — all  went. 
Everybody  laughed  at  me — everybody  but  my  wife — • 
spunky  little  woman— said  she  would  work  her  fingers 
off  before  I  should  give  it  up.  Went  to  England — no 
better  there — came  within  an  ace  of  jumping  off  Lon- 
don bridge.  Went  into  a  workshop  to  earn  money 
enough  to  come  home  with — there  I  met  the  man  I  want- 
ed. To  make  a  long  story  short,  I've  brought  fifty  thous- 
and pounds  home  with  me,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Good  for  you,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "fifty  thousand  pounds,  and  the  best 

of  it  is  she  don't  know  anything  about  it.     I've  fooled 

her  so  often,  and  disappointed  her  so  much,  that  I  just 

concluded  I  would  say  nothing  about  this.     When  I  got 

my  money  though,  you  better  believe  I  struck  a  bee  line 

for  home." 

"And  now,  I  suppose,  you  will  make  her  happy  ?  " 

"Happy!"  he  replied,  "why  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  She's  worked  like  a  dog  since  I  have  been 
gone,  trying  to  support  herself  and  the  children  decently. 
They  paid  her  thirteen  cents  apiece  for  miking  white 
shirts,  and  that  is  the  way  she'd  live  half  the  time.  She'll 
come  down  there  to  the  depot  to  meet  me  in  a  gingham 
dress,  and  a  shawl  a  hundred  years  «old,  and  she'll  think 


N  U  M  B  E  R  F  I  V  E.  29 

she's  dressed  up.     Oh,  she  wont  have  no  clothes  after 
this — oh,  no,  I  guess  not !  " 

And  with  these  words,  which  implied  that  his  wife's 
wardrobe  would  soon  rival  Queeu  Victoria's,  the  stran- 
ger tore  down  the  passage  way  again,  and  getting  in  his 
old  corner,  where  he  thought  himself  out  of  sight,  went 
through  the  strangest  pantomime, — laughing,  putting  his 
mouth  into  the  drollest  shape,  and  then  swinging  him- 
self back  and  forth  in  the  limited  space  as  if  he  were 
"walking  down  Broadway"  a  full-rigged  Metropolitan 
belle.  So  on  we  rolled  into  the  depot,  and  I  placed  myself 
on  the  other  car,  opposite  the  stranger,  who,  with  a  port- 
manteau in  his  hand,  descended,  and  was  standing  on 
the  lowest  step,  ready  to  jump  to  the  platform.  I  looked 
from  his  face  to  the  faces  of  the  people  before  us,  but  saw 
no  sign  of  recognition.     Suddenly  he  cried  : 

"  There  they  are !  " 

Then  he  laughed  outright,  but  in  a  hysterical  sort  of 
way,  as  he  looked  over  the  crowd.  I  followed  his  eye, 
and  saw  some  distance  back,  as  if  crowded  out  and  shoul- 
dered away  by  the  well-dressed  and  elbowing  throng,  a 
little  woman  in  a  faded  dress,  and  a  well-worn  hat,  with 
a  face  almost  painful  in  its  intense  but  hopeful  expres- 
sion, glancing  rapidly  from  window  to  window  as  the 
coaches  glided  in. 

She  had  not  yet  seen  the  stranger,  but  a  moment  after 
she  caught  his  eye,  and  in  another  instant  he  had  jumped 
to  the  platform  with  his  two  portmanteaus,  and  making 
a  hole  in  the  crowd,  pushing  one  here  and  there,  and 
running  one  of  his  bundles  plump  into  the  well-devel- 
oped stomach  of  a  venerable  looking  old  gentleman  in 
spectacles,  he  rushed  towards  the  place  where  she  was 
standing.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  face  assume  so  many 
different  expressions  in  so  short  a  time  as  did  that  of  the 
little  woman  while  her  husband  was  on  his  way  to  her. 

She  didn't  look  pretty ;  on  the  contrary,  she  looked 
very  plain,  but  somehow  I  felt  a  big  lump  rise  in  my 
throat  as  I  watched  her.     She  was  trying  to  laugh,  but, 


30  ONE   UUNDBED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

God  bless  her,  how  completely  she  failed  in  the  attempt ! 
Her  mouth  got  into  the  position,  but  it  never  moved 
after  that  save  to  draw  down  at  the  corners  and  quiver, 
while  she  blinked  her  eyes  so  fast  that  I  suspect  she  only 
caught  occasional  glimpses  of  the  broad-sliouldered  fel- 
low who  elbowed  his  way  so  rapidly  toward  her.  And 
then,  as  he  drew  close  and  dropped  those  everlasting 
portmanteaus,  she  just  turned  completely  round,  with 
her  back  toward  him,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  And  thus  she  was  when  the  strong  man  gathered 
her  up  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  a  baby,  and  held 
her,  sobbing,  to  his  breast. 

There  were  enough  gaping  at  them.  Heaven  know?, 
and  I  turned  my  eyes  away  a  moment,  and  then  1  saw 
two  boys  in  threadbare  roundabouts  standing  near,  wij)- 
ing  their  eyes  and  noses  on  their  little  coat  sleeves,  and 
bursting  out  anew  at  every  fresh  demonstration  on  the 
part  of  their  mother. 

When  I  looked  at  the  stranger  again,  he  had  his  hat 
drawn  over  his  eyes  ;  but  his  wife  was  looking  up  at  him 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  pent-up  tears  of  those  weary 
months  of  waiting  were  streaming  through  her  eyelids. 


COMPENSATION.* 

You  think  I'm  nervous,  stranger?    Well,  I  ami 
If 'twa'n't  for  making  silly  people  talk, 
I'd  get  right  off  this  pokish  train  and  walk 

From  here  to  where  I'm  going,— Amsterdam. 

That's  where  I  live,  you  see.    As  for  Lacrosse- 
Excuse  me,  neighbor,  I  inust  talk  or  bust — 
Since  I've  been  there,  it's  three  years  certain,  just ; 

And  now  to  laugh  or  cry  is  just  a  toss. 

"Married  ?  "    Why,  yes,  that's  where  it  is,  you  see ; 

I've  telegraphed  her  I  was  strong  and  well, 

And  coming  to  her;  but  I  didn't  tell 
That  I  was  rich.    I  thonaht  I'd  let  that  be. 

*Iu  tile  preceding  article  the  sauie  stuiy  is  tuld  iii  prune. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  81 

It's  too  good  luck,  this  is,  to  last,  you  know ; 
And,  stranger,  if  it  wasn't  kind  of  rash, 
I'd  bet  my  bottom  dollar  that  we  smash 

Before — but  pshaw  1  excuse  me,  I'll  go  slow. 

You  see,  when  we  were  married,  Sue  and  I, 

I  was  a  good  mechanic,  and  not  poor 

Until  I  struck  it,  as  I  reckoned  sure, 
In  an  invention  I  was  working  sly. 

All  I  could  make  went  into  that  concern  ; 
And  people  called  me  crazy  for  it,  too, 
And  said  I'd  better  stick  to  what  I  knew; 

But  folks  will  talk,  and  have  to  live  and  learn. 

In  all  this  world  I  had  but  one  friend  then. 
But  she  stood  by  me  nobly,  through  and  through, 
And  said  'twould  come  out  right  at  last,  she  knew — 

One  woman  stanch  is  worth  a  dozen  men  I 

'Twas  tough  sometimes,  though,  when  a  loaf  of  bread 
Stood  on  the  table, — all  the  meal  we  had. 
I  should  have  gone,  alone,  quite  to  the  bad ; 

But,  through  it  all,  my  Susan  kept  her  head. 

'Twas  her  advice  that  sent  me  off  at  last; 
She  said  she'd  work  her  fingers  to  the  bone. 
And  live  for  twenty  mortal  years  alone, 

Eather  than  give  it  up— thank  God,  that's  past  I 

A  hundred  thousand  and  a  royalty 

Is  what  I've  got  for  going  far  away  ; 

She  cheered  me  by  her  letters  every  day. 
A  million  could  not  pay  for  such  loyalty ! 

She  knows  I'm  coming;  but  she  doesn't  know 
That  I  am  rich ;  and  she  will  be  there,  too. 
Dressed  in  her  best — her  best,  my  poor,  dear  Sue! 

I'll  bet  a  hundred  'twill  be  calico  ! 

I'll  dress  her  now  !     You  bet  it!— but  go  slow ; 

This  luck's  a  heap  too  good  to  last,  I  fear; 

I  sha'n't  believe  it  till  I'm  fairly  there  : 
The  train  may  smash  up,  easy,  yet,  you  know. 

The  only  reason,  if  it  don't,  will  be 
That  I'm  so  strongly  thinking  that  it  will. 
I'm  necvous,  say  you  ?    Just  a  little,  still 

The  luck  is  none  too  good  for  Sue,  you  see. 


'32  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Hello  !  we're  here!  — there's  Sue,  by  all  that's  pranl! 
Stranger,  excuse  me,  sir,  but  would  you  mind 
To  go  ahead,  and  tell  her  I'm  behind? 

I'm  choking;  see  my  eyes  -you  understand? 


CHICAGO.— DwiGiiT  Williams. 

Hark!  Hark!  Hark! 
From  the  midnight's  hush  and  dark, 
Hear  a  wild,  wild  cry  of  fear 
Rising  on  the  atmosphere ; 
Weird  and  shrill  the  echo  flies, 
Louder,  hoarser  clamors  rise ; 
Now  a  red  gleam  skyward  darts, 
Quickly  throb  a  thousand  hearts; 
Now  they  gather  on  the  street, 
Dismal  tread  of  trampling  feet ; 

Fire!  fike  !  !  FIRE!  !  ! 
See  the  red  flames  leaping  higher. 

Peal !  peal !  peal ! 
Bells  of  brass  and  bells  of  steel ; 
How  they  ring  an  awful  chime 
Through  the  dismal  midnight  time; 
How  the  fiery  demon  gloats, 
How  he  scorns  the  brazen  throats 
Which  the  dauntless  fireman  aim 
At  his  surging  bands  of  flame ; 
Ah!  but  fire  is  king  to-night. 
And  the  waters  yield  the  fight. 

Higher,  higher,  higher, 
Like  a  tempest  sweeps  the  fire. 

Street  to  street. 
Like  a  raid  of  horsemen  fleet, 
Now  the  fiery  chargers  dash  ; 
Now  their  lances  gleam  and  flash ; 
Attic  height  and  cellar's  gloom, 
Lo  !  they  smite  with  sudden  doom ; 
Palsied  limbs  and  tiny  feet 
Ruthless  drive  they  to  the  street ; 
Food  of  millions  they  devour. 
Gourmands  of  the  midnight  hour  1 

How  they  spoil 
Treasured  arts  of  time  and.  toil ! 


N  U  M  B  E  R    F  I  V  K.  33 

Crash !  crash  !  crash ! 
See  the  fiery  surges  lash 
Cross-crowned  spire  and  splendid  dome, 
Proud  arcade  and  palace  home  ; 
Molten  acres  seethe  and  roll, 
City  lords  no  more  control ; 
Riot-flames  in  fury  whirl, 
Toss  their  plumes,  and  madly  curl 
Lips  of  scorn  at  human  cries, 
Help  imploring  from  the  skies; 

To  and  fro 
Rolls  a  sea  of  human  woe. 

Fire  !    Fire .'    Fire  ! 
Bristles  every  throbbing  wire ; 
Cities  list  with  wild  surprise, 
As  a  prostrate  city  lies 
In  her  smold'ring  ashes  low, 
Breathing  out  her  midnight  woe ; 
Charred  and  crisp  her  pictured  walls, 
Blank  and  drear  her  proudest  halls  ; 
All  the  land  with  pallor  turns 
As  Chicago  wails  and  burns  ;  , 

Let  us  pray, 
God,  O  God,  thy  judgments  stay  I 

In  thy  grief, 
Pitying  hands  reach  out  relief; 
Lo !  a  hundred  cities  wait 
In  this  hour  of  thy  sad  fate ; 
Prostrate  Queen !  thy  wail  is  heard, 
All  the  nation's  heart  is  stirred. 
We  shall  love  thee  for  thy  woe ; 
By  this  grief  thou  yet  shalt  know 
Sweeter  ties  of  brotherhood, 
Binding  millions  of  one  blood. 

City  fair. 
Droop  not  long  in  wild  despair  I 

Unto  thee, 
God  of  refuge !  now  we  flee ; 
Spread  the  shelter  of  thy  wing 
O'er  the  sad  and  sorrowing ; 
For  the  rich,  now  ])oor,  we  pray, 
Gently  shield  and  lead  their  way ; 

2* 


84  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

For  the  sad  and  houseless  poor 
Open  now  some  loving  door ; 
For  thy  scattered  children  all, 
Proud  and  lowly,  great  and  small, 

Hear  us  plead, — 
Help,  oh  help  them  in  their  need ! 


THE  RESCUE  OF  CHICAGO.-Hlnry  M.  Look. 

I  saw  the  city's  terror, 

I  heard  the  city's  cry, 
As  a  flame  leaped  out  of  her  bosom, 

Up,  up  to  the  brazen  sky. 
And  wilder  rose  the  tumult. 

And  thicker  the  tidings  came — 
Chicago,  queen  of  the  cities. 

Was  a  rolling  sea  of  flame. 

Yet  higher  rose  the  fury. 
And  louder  the  surges  raved. 

Thousands  were  saved  to  suffer, 
I  And  hundreds  were  never  saved; 

Till  out  of  the  awful  burning, 
A  flash  of  lightning  went. 

And  across  to  brave  St.  Louis 
The  prayer  for  succor  was  sent. 

God  bless  thee,  0  true  St.  Louis ! 

So  worthy  th}'^  royal  name ; 
Back,  back  on  the  wing  of  the  lightning, 

Thy  answer  of  rescue  came ; 
But  alas  !  it  could  not  enter 

Through  the  horrible  flame  and  heat. 
For  the  fire  had  conquered  the  lightning, 

And  sat  in  the  Thunderer's  seat. 

God  bless  thee,  again,  St.  Louis  I 

For  resting  never  then  ; 
Thou  calledst  to  all  the  cities 

By  lightning  and  steam  and  pen  : 
"  Ho,  ho,  ye  hundred  sisters, 

Stand  forth  in  your  bravest  might  I 
Our  sister  in  flames  is  falling, 

Her  children  are  dying  to-night  I  " 


NUMBEKFIVE.  35 

And  through  the  mighty  Republic 

Thy  summons  went  rolling  on, 
Till  it  rippled  the  seas  in  the  tropics, 

And  rutHed  the  Oregon. 
The  distant  Golden  City 

Called  through  her  golden  gates, 
And  quickly  rung  the  answer 

From  the  City  of  the  Straits. 

And  the  cities  that  sit  in  splendor 

Along  the  Atlantic  Sea, 
Eeplying,  called  to  the  dwellers 

Where  the  proud  magnolias  be. 
From  slumber  the  army  started. 

At  the  far  resounding  call : 
"  Food  for  a  hundred  thousand," 

They  shouted,  "and  tents  for  all." 

I  heard  through  the  next  night's  darkness, 

The  trains  go  thundering  by, 
Till  they  stood  where  the  fated  city 

Shone  red  in  the  brazen  sky  ; 
The  rich  gave  their  abundance, 

The  poor  their  willing  hands  ; 
There  was  wine  from  all  the  vineyards. 

There  was  corn  from  all  the  lands. 

At  daybreak  over  the  prairies 

Re-echoed  the  gladsome  cry, 
"  Ho,  look  unto  us,  ye  thousands. 

Ye  shall  not  hunger  nor  die  !  " 
Their  weeping  was  all  the  answer 

That  the  famishing  throng  could  give 
To  the  million  voices  calling, 

"  Look  unto  us  and  live  ! " 

Destruction  wasted  the  city. 

But  the  burning  curse  that  came 
Enkindled  in  all  the  people 

Sweet  Charity's  holy  flame. 
Then  still  to  our  God  be  glory  ! 

I  bless  him  through  my  tears, 
That  I  live  in  the  grandi'st  nation 

That  hath  stood  in  all  the  years. 


36  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICK    SELKCTIONS 


CRAPE   ON  THE  DOOR. 

Somebody's  dead  ;  there's  crape  on  the  door; 
The  blinds  are  half-closed  on  the  neighboring  store; 
Some  one  in  sorrow,  of  a  loved  one  bereft, 
Somebody  taken,  and  somebody  left. 

Gone  from  this  world,  its  care  and  its  strife, 
Gone  from  the  dear  ones  beloved  during  life  ; 
Gone  to  a  home  with  the  ransomed  above, 
Gone  to  a  Saviour  whose  fulness  is  love. 

Closed  be  the  eyes  of  thd  sleeper  to-day. 

Silent  the  home  where  the  loved  one  doth  lay; 

There  is  a  season  of  weeping  for  one 

Whose  troubles  are  ended,  whose  labors  are  done. 

Heavy  the  footfall  as  each  on  his  way 

Treads  the  brick  pavement,  light-hearted,  to-day  ; 

Little  they  heed  the  half-blinded  store, 

Little  they  care  for  the  crape  on  the  door. 

Little  care  they  in  the  battle  of  life, 
Ardently  fighting  mid  turmoil  and  strife  ; 
Little  care  they  who  never  look  back. 
With  eyes  firmly  fixed  on  life's  beaten  track. 

Onward  they  rush  till  in  reaching  life's  bound. 
They  slacken  the  footstep  and  quiet  the  sound; 
Ceasing  their  efforts,  their  labors  give  o'er, 
Pass  them  by  gently,  there's  crape  on  the  door. 


MARK  TWAIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  "JIM  SMILEY." 

As  related  by  Simon  Wheeler,  Esq.,  of  Angel's  Camp,  Calaveras  County,  Cal., 
on  being  asked  for  information   concerning  a  certain  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley. 

There  was  a  feller  here  once  by  the  name  of  Jim  Smi- 
ley in  the  winter  of  '49 — or  may  be  it  was  the  spring 
of'50 ;  I  don't  recollect  exactly,  somehow,  though  what 
makes  me  think  it  was  one  or  the  other  is  because  I  re- 
member the  big  flume  wasn't  finished  when  he  first  came 
to  the  camp  r  but  any  way,  he  was  the  curiosest  man 
about  always  betting  on  anything  that  turned  up  you 
ever  see,  if  he  could  get  anybody  to  bet  on  the  other  side ; 


N  U  M  B  E  R   F  I V  E.  37 

and  if  he  couldn't  he'd  change  sides.     Any  way  that 
suited  the  other  man  would  suit  him, — any  way  just  so's 
he  got  a  bet,  he  was  satisfied.     But  still  he  was  lucky, 
uncommon  lucky ;  he  most  always  come  out  winner.    He 
was  always  ready  and  laying  for  a  chance ;  there  couldn't 
be  no  solit'ry  thing  mentioned  but  that  feller'd  offer  to 
bet  on  it,  and  take  any  side  you  please,  as  I  was  just  tell- 
ing you.     It  there  was  a  horse-race,  you'd  find  him  flush 
or  you'd  find  him  busted  at  the  end  of  it ;    if  there  was 
a  dog-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it ;  if  there  was  a  chicken-fight, 
he'd  bet  on  it ;  why,  if  there  was  two  birds  setting  on  a 
fence,  he  would  bet  you  which  one  would  fly  first ;  or  if 
there  was  a  camp-meeting,  he  would  be  there  reg'lar,  to 
bet  on  Parson  Walker,  which  he  judged  to  be  the  best 
exhorter  about  here, — and  so  he  was,  too,  and  a  good 
man.     If  he  even  seen  a  straddle-bug  start  to  go  any- 
wheres, he  would  bet  you  how  long  it  would  take  him  to 
get  wherever  he  was  going  to,  and  if  you  took  him  up, 
he  would  fuller  that  straddle-bug  to  Mexico  but  what 
he  would  find  out  where  he  was  bound  for  and  how  long 
he  was  on  the  road.     Lots  of  the  boys  here  has  seen  that 
Smiley,  and  can  tell  you  about  him.   Why,  it  never  made 
no  diff.'rence  to  him,  he  would   bet  on   anything, — the 
dangdest  feller.  Parson  Walker's  wife  laid  very  sick  once, 
for  a  good  while,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  warn't  a-goin 
to  save  her.     But  one  morning  he  come  in,  and  Smiley 
asked  how  she  was,  and  he  said  she  was  considerable 
better — thank  the  Lord  for  his  inf'nit  mercy — and  com- 
ing on  so  smart  that,  with  the  blessing  of  Prov'dence, 
she'd  get  well  yet ;  and  Smiley,  before  he  thought,  says, 
"  Well,  I'll  risk  two-and-a-half  that  she  don't,  anyway." 
This-yer  Smiley  had  a  mare, — the  boys  called  her  the 
fifteen-minute  nag,  but  that  was  only  in  fun,  you  know, 
because,  of  course,  she  was  faster  than  that, — and  he 
used  to  win  money  on  that  hoi-se,  for  all  she  was  so  slow, 
and  always  Iiad  the  asthma,  or  the  distemper,  or  the  con- 
sumption, or  something  of  that  kind.     They  u.s2d  to  give 
her  two  or  three  hundred  yards  start,  and  then  pass 


3cS  OXE    IIUNDRKD    CiiOlCE    SKLECTIONS 

her  under  way ;  but  always  at  the  fag  end  of  the  race 
she'd  get  excited  and  desperate  like,  and  come  cavorting 
and  straddling  up,  and  scattering  her  legs  around  lim- 
ber, sometimes  in  the  air,  and  sometimes  out  to  one  side 
amongst  the  fences,  and  kicking  up  m-o-r-e  dust,  and  rais- 
ing m-o-r-e  racket  with  her  coughing  and  sneezing  and 
blowing  her  nose, — and  always  fetch  up  at  the  stand  just 
about  a  neck  ahead,  as  near  us  you  could  cipher  it  down. 
And  he  had  a  little  small  bull  pup,  that  to  look  at 
him  you'd  think  he  wa'n't  worth  a  cent,  but  to  set  around 
and  look  ornery,  and  lay  for  a  chance  to  steal  something. 
But  as  soon  as  money  was  up  on  him  he  was  a  different 
dog  ;  his  under  jaw'd  begin  to  stick  out  like  the  fo'cas- 
tle  of  a  steamboat,  and  his  teeth  would  uncover,  and  shine 
savage  like  the  furnaces.  And  a  dog  might  tackle  him, 
and  bully-rag  him,  and  bite  him,  and  throw  him  over 
his  shoulder  two  or  three  times,  and  Andrew  Jackson, — 
which  was  the  name  of  the  pup, — Andrew  Jackson  would 
never  let  on  but  what  he  was  satisfied,  and  hadn't  expec- 
ted nothing  else ;  and  the  bets  being  doubled  and  dou- 
bled on  the  otlier  side  all  the  time,  till  the  money  was 
all  up  ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would  grab  that 
other  dog  jest  by  the  j'int  of  his  hind  leg  and  freeze  to 
it,  not  chaw,  you  understand,  butonly  jest  grip  and  hang 
on  till  they  throwed  up  the  sponge,  if  it  was  a  year. 
Smiley  always  come  out  winner  on  that  pup,  till  he  har- 
nessed a  dog  once  that  didn't  have  no  hind  legs,  because 
they'd  been  sawed  off  by  a  circular  saw,  and  when  the 
thing  had  gone  along  far  enough,  and  the  money  was  all 
up,  and  he  come  to  make  a  snatch  for  his  pet  holt,  he 
saw  in  a  minute  how  he'd  been  imposed  on,  and  how  the 
other  dog  had  him  in  the  door,  so  to  speak,  and  he  'peared 
surprised,  and  then  he  looked  sorter  discouraged-like, 
and  didn't  try  no  more  to  win  the  fight,  and  so  he  got 
shucked  out  bad.  He  give  Smiley  a  look,  as  much  as 
to  say  his  heart  was  broke,  and  it  was  his  fault,  for  put- 
ting up  a  dog  that  hadn't  no  hind  legs  for  him  to  take 
holt  of,  which  was  his  main  dependence  in  a  fight,  and 


NUMBER   FIVE.  39 

then  he  limped  off  a  piece,  and  laid  down  and  died.  It 
was  a  good  pup,  was  that  Andrew  Jackson,  and  would 
have  made  a  name  for  hisself  if  he'd  lived,  for  the  stuff 
was  in  him,  and  he  had  genius ;  I  know  it,  because  he 
hadn't  had  no  opportunities  to  speak  of,  and  it  don't 
stand  to  reason  that  a  dog  could  make  such  a  fight  as  he 
could  under  them  circumstances,  if  he  hadn't  no  talent. 
It  always  makes  me  feel  sorry  when  I  think  of  that  last 
fight  of  his'n,  and  the  way  it  turned  out. 

Well,  this-yer  Smiley  had  rat-tarriers,  and  chicken- 
cocks,  and  all  them  kind  of  things,  till  you  couldn't  rest, 
and  you  couldn't  fetch  nothing  for  him  to  bet  on  but 
he'd  match  you.  He  ketch ed  a  frog  one  day,  and  took 
him  home,  and  said  he  calk'lated  to  edercate  him ;  and 
so  he  never  done  nothing  for  three  months  but  set  in  his 
back  yard  and  learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet 
he  did  learn  him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch 
behind,  and  the  next  minute  you'd  see  that  frog  whirl- 
ing in  the  air  like  a  doughnut, — see  him  turn  one  sum- 
merset, or  may  be  a  couple,  if  he  got  a  good  start,  and 
come  down  flatfooted  and  all  right,  like  a  cat.  He  got 
him  up  so  in  the  matter  of  catching  flies,  and  kept  him 
in  practice  so  constant,  that  he'd  nail  a  fly  every  time 
as  far  as  he  could  see  him.  Smiley  said  all  a  frog  wan- 
ted was  education,  and  he  could  do  most  anything ;  and 
I  believe  him.  Why,  I've  seen  him  set  Dan'I  Webster 
down  here  on  this  floor, — Dan'I  Webster  was  the  name 
of  the  frog, — and  sing  out,  "  Flies,  Dan'I,  flics,"  and 
quicker'n  you  could  wink  he'd  spring  straight  up,  and 
snake  a  fly  oft'n  the  counter  there,  and  flop  down  on  the 
floor  again,  as  solid  as  a  gob  of  mud,  and  fall  to  scratch- 
ing the  side  of  his  head  with  his  hind  foot  as  indifferent 
as  if  he  hadn't  no  idee  he'd  been  doing  any  more'n  any 
frog  might  do.  You  never  see  a  frog  so  modest  and 
straightfor'ard  as  he  was,  for  all  he  was  so  gifted.  And 
when  it  come  to  fair  and  square  jumping  on  a  dead  level, 
he  could  get  over  more  ground  at  one  straddle  than  any 
animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jumping  on  a  dead 
cc 


40  ONE    HUNDRED    CnOICK    SELECTIONS 

level  was  his  strong  suit,  you  understand  ;  and  when  it 
come  to  that,  Smiley  would  ante  up  money  on  him  as 
long  as  he  had  a  red.  Smiley  was  monstrous  proud  of 
his  frog,  and  well  he  might  be,  for  fellers  that  had  trav- 
eled and  been  everywheres,  all  said  he  laid  over  any 
frog  that  ever  they  see. 

Well,  Smiley  kept  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and 
he  used  to  fetch  him  down  town  sometimes,  and  lay  for 
a  bet.  One  day  a  feller — a  stranger  in  camp,  he  was — 
come  across  him  with  his  box,  and  says : 

"  What  might  it  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box  ?  " 

And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent  like,  "  It  might  be 
a  parrot,  or  it  might  be  a  canary,  may  be,  but  it  aint, — 
it's  only  just  a  frog." 

And  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and 
turned  it  round  this  way  and  that,  and  says,  "  H'm  !  so 
'tis.     Well,  what's  he  good  for  ?  " 

"  Well,"  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  "  he's  good 
enough  for  one  thing,  I  should  judge, — he  can  outjump 
ary  frog  in  Calaveras  county." 

The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long, 
particular  look,  and  give  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says, 
very  deliberate,  "  Well,  I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

"  May  be  you  don't,"  Smiley  says.  "  May  be  you  un- 
deretand  frogs,  and  may  be  you  don't  understand  'em  ; 
may  be  you've  had  experience,  and  may  be  you  aint 
only  a  amature,  as  it  were.  Anyways,  I've  got  my  opin- 
ion, and  I'll  risk  forty  dollars  that  he  can  outjump  ary 
frog  in  Calaveras  county." 

And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder 
sad  like,  "  Well,  I'm  only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  aint 
got  no  frog  ;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you." 

And  then  Smiley  says,  "  That's  all  right, — that's  all 
right ;  if  you'll  hold  my  box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get 
you  a  frog." 

And  so  the  feller  took  the  box,  and  put  up  his  forty 
dollars  along  with  Smiley's,  and  set  down  to  wait.    So 


'•  N  U  M  B  E  R   P  I  V  E.  41 

he  set  there  a  good  while,  thinking  and  thinking  to 
hisself,  and  then  he  got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his 
mouth  open,  and  took  a  teaspoon  and  filled  him  full  of 
quail  shot, — filled  him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin, — and 
set  him  on  the  floor.  Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp,  and 
slopped  around  in  the  mud  for  a  long  time,  and  finally 
he  ketched  a  frog,  and  fetched  him  in,  and  give  him  to 
this  feller,  and  says  : 

"  Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l, 
with  his  f  )re-pa\vs  just  even  with  Dan'l,  and  I'll  give 
the  word."  Then  he  says,  "One — two — three — jump!  " 
and  him  and  the  feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind, 
and  the  new  frog  hopped  oflT,  but  Dan'l  give  a  heave, 
and  hysted  up  his  shoulders — so — like  a  Frenchman, 
but  it  wasn't  no  use,  he  couldn't  budge;  he  was  planted 
as  solid  as  an  anvil,  and  he  couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if 
he  was  anchored  out.  Smiley  was  a  good  deal  surprised, 
and  he  was  disgusted  too,  but  he  didn't  have  no  idea 
what  the  matter  was,  of  course. 

The  feller  took  the  money  and  started  away  ;  and  when 
he  was  going  out  at  the  door,  he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulders — this  way — at  Dan'l,  and  says  again, 
very  deliberate,  "  Well,  1  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and  looking  down 
at  Dan'l  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  says,  "  I  do  wonder 
what  in  the  nation  that  frog  throwed  off"  for;  I  wonder 
if  there  aint  something  the  matter  with  him,  he  'pears  to 
look  mighty  baggy,  somehow."  And  he  ketched  Dan'l 
by  the  nap  of  the  neck,  and  lifted  him  up,  and  says, 
"  Why,  blame  my  cats,  if  he  don't  weigh  five  pound !  " 
and  turned  him  upside  down,  and  he  belched  out  a  dou- 
ble handful  of  shot.  And  then  he  see  how  it  was,  and 
he  was  the  maddest  man.  He  set  the  frog  down,  and 
took. out  after  that  feller,  but  he  never  ketched  him. 
And " 

Here  Simon  Wheeler  heard  his  name  called  from  the 
front  yard,  and  got  up  to  see  what  was  wanted.     And 


42  ONE   HUNDRED    CHOICE  S  E  I,ECT  I  0  NS.i 

turning  as  he  moved  away,  he  said,  "  Just  set  where  you 
are,  stranger,  and  I'est  easy, — I  uint  going  to  be  gone  a 
second." 

But  the  stranger  did  not  think  that  a  continuation  of 
the  history  of  the  enterprising  vagabond,  Jim  Smiley, 
would  be  likely  to  afford  much  information  concerning 
the  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  and  so  started  away. 


JOE. — Alice  Robbins. 

We  don't  take  vagrants  in,  sir, 

And  I  am  alone  to-day, 
Lestwise,  I  could  call  the  good-man  — 

He's  not  so  far  away. 

Yon  are  welcome  to  a  breakfast — 
I'll  bring  you  some  bread  and  tea  ; 

You  might  sit  on  the  old  stone  yonder, 
Under  the  chestnut  tree. 

You're  traveling,  stranger?    Mebbe 
You've  got  some  notions  to  sell  ? 

We  hev  a  sight  of  peddlers, 
But  we  allers  treat  them  well. 

For  they,  poor  souls,  are  trying 

Like  the  rest  of  us  to  live  ; 
And  it's  not  like  tramping  the  country, 

And  calling  on  folks  to  give. 

Not  that  I  meant  a  word,  sir  ; 

No  offense  in  the  world  to  you— 
I  think,  now  I  look  at  it  closer, 

Your  coat  is  an  army  blue. 

Don't  say  ?     Under  Sherman,  were  you  ? 

That  was — how  many  years  ago  ? 
I  had  a  boy  at  Shiloh, 

Kearney,— a  sergeant,— Joe ! 

Joe  Kearney,  you  might  a'  met  him? 

But  in  course  you  were  miles  apart. 
He  was  a  tall,  straight  boy,  sir, 

The  pride  of  his  mother's  heart. 


NUMBER  FIVE. 

We  were  oflf  to  Kittery,  then,  sir, 
Small  farmer  in  dear  old  Maine ; 

It's  a  long  stretch  from  there  to  Kansas, 
But  1  couldn't  go  back  again. 

He  was  all  we  had,  was  Joseph ; 

He  and  my  old  man  and  me 
Had  sort  o'  growed  together, 

And  were  happy  as  we  could  be. 

I  wasn't  a-lookin'  for  trouble 

AVhen  the  terrible  war  begun. 
And  I  wrestled  for  grace  to  be  able 

To  give  up  our  only  son. 

Well,  well,  'taint  no  use  o'  talking. 

My  old  man  said,  said  he: 
"The  Lord  loves  a  willin'  giver," 

And  that's  what  I  tried  to  be. 

Well  the  heart  and  the  flesh  are  rebels, 
And  hev  to  be  fought  with  grace ; 

But  I'd  given  my  life — yes,  willin'— 
To  look  on  my  dead  boy's  face. 

Take  care,  you  are  spillin'  your  tea,  sir; 

Poor  soul !  don't  cry  :  I'm  sure 
You've  had  a  good  mother  some  time— 

Your  wounds,  were  they  hard  to  cure? 

Andersonville  f  God  help  you! 

Hunted  by  dogs,  did  you  say  ? 
Hospital !  crazy  seven  years,  sir  ? 

I  wonder  you're  living  to-day. 

I'm  thankful  my  Joe  was  shot,  sir. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  he  died? " 
'Twas  certified,  sir,  by  the  surgeon  ; 

Here's  the  letter,  and— "Maybe  he  lied  !  " 

Well,  I  never !  you  shake  like  the  ager. 

My  Joe  !  there's  his  name  and  the  date  ; 
"Joe  Kearney,  7th  Maine,  sir,  a  sergeant, 

Lies  here  in  a  critical  state — 

"Just  died— will  be  buried  to-morrow— 
Can't  wait  for  Ins  parents  to  come." 

Well,  I  thought  God  had  left  us  that  hour, 
As  for  John,  my  poor  man,  he  was  dumb ; 


43 


44  ONE  HUNDBED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Didn't  speak  for  a  month  to  the  neighbors, 
Scarce  spoke  in  a  week,  sir,  to  me  ; 

Never  been  the  same  man  since  that  Monday 
They  brought  us  this  letter  you  see. 

And  you  were  from  Maine !  from  old  Kittery  ? 

What  time  in  the  year  did  you  go? 
I  just  disremember  the  fellows 

That  marched  out  of  town  with  our  Joe. 

Lord  love  ye!  come  into  the  house,  sir: 
It's  gettin'  too  warm  out  o'  door. 

If  I'd  known  you'd  been  gone  for  a  sojer, 
I'd  taken  you  in  here  afore. 

Now  make  yourself  easy.    We're  humbler, 
We  Kansas  folks  don't  go  for  show. 

Sit  here — it's  Joe's  chair — take  your  hat  off: 
Call  father  f  My  God  I  yoa  are  Joe  ! 


HARMOSAN.— RuHARD  C.  Trench. 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian  throne  was 

done, 
And  the  Moslem's  fiery  valor  had  the  crowing  victory  won. 

Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader  to  defy, 
Captive,  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were  bringing  forth  to 
die. 

Then  exclaimed  that  noble  captive  :   "  Lo,  I  perish  in  my 

thirst ; 
Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  then  let  arrive  the 

worst!" 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet,  but,  awhile,  the  draught 

forbore, 
Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  foeman  to  explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest — for,  around  him, 

angry  foes 
With  a  hedge  of  naked  weapons  did  that  lonely  man  enclose. 

"  But  what  fearest  thou  ?  "  cried  the  caliph,  "  is  it,  friend,  a 
secret  blow  ? 

Fear  it  not ! — our  gallant  Moslems  no  such  treacherous  deal- 
ing know. 


N  U  M  B  K  R    F  I  V  K.  45 

"Thou  mayst  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for  thou  shalt  not 

die  before 
Thou  hast  drunk  that  cup  of  water— this  reprieve  is  thine, 

no  more ! " 

Quick  the  satrap  dashed  the  goblet  down  to  earth  with  ready 

liand, 
And  the  liquid  sank  forever,  lost  amid  the  burning  sand. 

"  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the  water  of  that 

cup 
I  have  drained,  then  bid  thy  servants  that  spilled  water 

gather  up !  " 

For  a  moment  stood  the  caliph  as  by  doubtful  passions 

stirred — 
Then  exclaimed,  "  Forever  sacred  must  remain  a  monarch's 

word. 
"  Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the  noble  Persian 

give : 
Drink,  I  said  before,  and  perish— now  I  bid  thee  drink  and 

live ! " 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  RAGENBACH. 

In  the  principality  of  Hohenlohe,  now  a  part  of  the 
kingdom  of  Wirtemberg,  is  a  village  called  Kagonbach, 
where,  about  twenty  years  ago,  the  following  event  took 
place.  One  afternoon  in  early  autumn,  in  tlie  tavern 
room  of  Ragenbach,  several  men  and  women,  assembled 
from  the  village,  sat  at  their  ease.  The  smith  formed 
one  of  the  merry  company  ;  he  was  a  strong  man,  with 
resolute  countenance  and  daring  mien,  but  with  such  a 
good-natured  smile  on  his  lips  that  every  one,  who  saw 
him,  admired  him.  His  arms  were  like  bars  of  iron  and 
his  fist  like  a  forge-hammer,  so  that  few  oould  equal  him 
in  strength  of  body. 

Tlie  smith  sat  near  the  door  chatting  with  one  of  his 
neighbors,  when  all  at  once  the  door  opened,  and  a  dog 
came  staggering  into  the  room, — a  great,  powerful  beast, 
with  a  frightful  asp3Ct,  his  head  hanging  down,  his  eyes 
bloodshot,  his  lead-colored  tongue  half  way  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  his  tail  drop!)ed  between  his  legs.  Thus  the 
ferocious  beast  entered  the  room,  out  of  which  there  was 


46  ONK     HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

no  escape  but  by  one  door.  Scarcely  had  the  smith's 
neighbor,  who  was  bath-keeper  of  the  place,  seen  the  an- 
imal than  he  became  deadly  jjale,  sprang  up  and  exclaim- 
ed, in  a  horrified  voice,  "  Good  heavens  !  the  dog  is  mad  !  " 

Then  arose  a  terrible  outcry.  The  room  was  full  of 
men  and  women,  and  the  foaming  beast  stood  before  the 
only  entrance — no  one  could  leave  without  passing  him. 
He  snapped  savagely  right  and  left — no  one  could  pass 
him  without  being  bitten.  This  increased  the  fearful 
confusion.  With  horror  depicted  upon  their  counte- 
nances, all  sprang  up  and  shrunk  from  the  dog.  Who 
should  deliver  them  from  him?  The  smith  also  stood 
among  them,  and,  as  he  saw  the  anguish  of  the  people, 
it  flashed  across  his  mind  how  many  of  his  happy  and 
contented  neighbors  would  be  made  miserable  by  a  mad 
dog,  and  he  formed  a  resolution,  the  like  of  which  is 
scarcely  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  the  human  race, 
for  noble  self-devotion. 

"  Back  all !  "  thundered  he,  in  a  deep,  strong  voice. 
**  Let  no  one  stir  ;  for  none  can  vanquish  the  beast  but 
me !  One  victim  must  fall,  in  order  to  save  the  rest ; 
I  will  be  that  victim  ;  I  will  hold  the  brute,  and  while 
I  do  so,  make  your  escape,"  The  smith  had  scarcely 
spoken  these  words  when  the  dog  started  towards  the 
shrieking  people.  But  he  went  not  far.  "  With  God's 
help,"  cried  the  smith,  and  he  rushed  upon  the  foaming 
beast,  seized  him  with  an  iron  grasp,  and  dashed  him  to 
the  floor.  A  terrible  struggle  followed.  The  dog  bit 
furiously  on  every  side  in  a  frightful  manner.  His  long 
teeth  tore  the  arms  and  thighs  of  the  heroic  smith,  but 
he  would  not  let  him  loose.  Regardless  alike  of  the  ex- 
cessive pain  and  the  horrible  death  that  must  ensue,  he 
held  down  with  an  iron  grasp,  the  snapping,  howling 
brute,  till  all  had  escaped. 

He  then  flung  the  half-strangled  beast  from  him  a- 
gainst  the  wall,  and,  dripping  with  blood  and  venomous 
foam,  he  left  the  room,  locking  the  door  after  him.  Some 
persons  then  shot  the  dog  through  the  windows.    Weep- 


N  U  M  B  E  R   F  I  V  E.  47 

ing  and  lamenting,  the  people  surrounded  him  who  had 
saved  their  lives,  at  the  expense  of  his  own,  "  Be  quiet, 
do  not  weep  for  me,"  he  said,  "one  must  die  in  order  to 
save  the  others.  Do  not  thank  me — I  have  only  per- 
formed my  duty.  When  I  am  dead,  think  of  me  with 
love,  and  now  pray  for  me,  that  God  will  not  let  me 
sutler  long,  nor  too  much.  I  will  take  care  that  no 
further  mischief  shall  occur  through  me,  for  I  must  cer- 
tainly become  mad. 

He  went  straight  to  his  workshop  and  selected  a  strong 
chain,  the  heaviest  and  firmest  from  his  whole  stock  ; 
then,  with  his  own  hands,  welded  it  upon  his  limbs,  and 
around  the  anvil  firmly.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  it  is  done," 
after  having  silently  and  solemnly  completed  the  work. 
"  Now  you  are  secured,  and  I  am  inoffensive.  So  long 
as  I  live  bring  me  my  food.  The  rest  I  leave  to  God, 
into  his  hands  I  commend  my  spirit." 

Nothing  could  save  the  brave  smith  ;  neither  tears,  la- 
mentations nor  prayers.  Madness  seized  him,  and  after 
nine  days  he  die  i.  He  died,  but  his  memory  will  live 
from  generation  to  generation,  ajid  will  be  venerated  to 
the  end  of  time.  Search  history  through,  and  you  will 
not  find  an  action  moreglorious  and  sublime  than  thedeed 
of  this  simple-minded  man, — the  smith  of  Ragenbach. 


TEACHING  PUBLIC    SCHOOL. 

Forty  little  urchins 

Coming  throu'^li  the  door, 
PushinfT,  crow<lin<r,  making 

A  tremendous  roar. 
Why  don't  you  keep  quiet? 

Can't  you  keep  the  rule  ? 
Bless  me,  this  is  pleasant. 

Teaching  public  school! 

Forty  little  pilgrims 
On  tlie  road  to  fame  ; 

If  tlu'v  fail  to  reach  it, 
Who  will  1)0  to  l)hune? 

IIi<rii  and  lowly  stations. 
Birds  of  every  fi'ather, 


CCT 


48  ONE    HUNDRKD   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

On  a  common  level 
Here  are  brought  together. 

Dirty  little  faces, 

Loving  little  hearts, 
Eyes  brimful  of  mischief, 

Skilled  in  all  its  arts. 
That's  a  precious  darling ! 

What  are  you  about  ? 
"May  I  pass  the  water?" 

"  Please,  may  I  go  out  ?  " 

Boots  and  shoes  are  shuffling, 

Slates  and  books  are  rattling. 
And  in  the  corner  yonder 

Two  pugilists  are  battling : 
Others  cutting  didoes  — 

What  a  botheration ! 
No  wonder  we  grow  crusty 

From  such  association  I 

Anxious  parent  drops  in, 

Merely  to  inquire 
Why  his  olive  branches 

Do  not  shoot  up  higher ; 
Says  he  wants  his  children 

To  mind  their  p's  and  q's. 
And  hopes  their  brilliant  talents 

Will  not  be  abused. 

Spelling,  reading,  writing, 

Putting  up  the  young  ones; 
Fuming,  scolding,  fighting, 

Spurring  on  the  dumb  ones; 
Gymnasts,  vocal  music — 

How  the  heart  rejoices 
When  the  singer  comes  to 

Cultivate  the  voices  I 

Institute  attending. 

Making  out  reports, 
Giving  object  lessons. 

Class  drills  of  all  sorts; 
Reading  dissertations. 

Feeling  like  a  fool — 
Oh,  the  untold  blessing 

Of  the  public  school  1 


I 


N  e  M  B  E  B    F 1  V  E.  4.9 


BILL  AND  JOE.— O.  VV.  Holmes. 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by,— 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  1  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail, 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail ; 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 

And  grand  vou  look  in  people's  eyes. 

With  HON.' and  LL.  D., 

In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see  — 

Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  ofl"  they  go! 

How  are  you,  Bill?     How  are  you,  Joe? 

You've  worn  the  judge's  ermine  robe  ; 
You've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe; 
You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain; 
You've  made  the  dead  past  live  again ; 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 
"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray; 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens — 
Mad,  poor  old  boys!    That's  what  it  means "- 
And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe  ; 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side  ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes, — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar  !  what  is  fame? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame; 
» 


50  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICS    SELECTIONS 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust. 
That  lifts  a  i>inch  of  mortal  dust : 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill,  and  which  was  Joe  ? 

The  weary  idol  takes  bis  stand, 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand. 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! — 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill : 

'TIS  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you,  Bill !  " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 

The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears, — 

In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song, 

For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, — 

Just  whispering  of  the  world  below, 

Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe?  i. 

No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here 

No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear ; 

When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 

Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ?  % 

Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still,  ^ 

Sic  jacei  Joe.    Jlic  jacet  Bill.  s 


THE  ATHEIST.— Wm.  Knox. 

The  fool  hath  said  "There  is  no  God  !  " 

No  God  ! — Who  lights  the  morning  sun, 
And  sends  him  on  his  heavenly  road, 

A  far  and  brilliant  course  to  run  ? 

Who,  when  the  radiant  day  is  done, 
Hangs  forth  the  moon's  nocturnal  lamp. 

And  bids  the  planets,  one  by  one. 
Steal  o'er  the  night  vales,  dark  and  damp  1 

No  God  ! — Who  gives  the  evening  dew, 

The  fanning  breeze,  the  fostering  shower? 
Who  warms  the  spring-morn's  budding  bough, 

And  plants  the  summer's  noontide  flower  ? 

Who  spreads  in  the  autumnal  bower 
The  fruit  tree's  mellow  stores  around. 

And  sends  the  winter's  icy  power, 
To  invigorate  the  exhausted  ground? 


N  U  M  B  E  R   F  I  V  E.  51 

No  God  I — Who  makes  the  bird  to  wing 

Its  tligiit  like  arrow  through  the  sky, 
And  gives  the  deer  its  power  to  spring 

From  rock  to  rock  triumphantly  ? 

Who  formed  behemoth,  huge  and  high, 
That  at  a  draught  the  river  drains, 

And  great  leviathan  to  lie, 
Like  floating  isle,  on  ocean  plains  ?  * 

No  God ! — Who  warms  the  heart  to  heave 

With  thousand  feelings  soft  and  sweet. 
And  prompts  the  aspiring  soul  to  leave 

The  earth  we  tread  beneath  our  feet, 

And  soar  away  on  pinions  fleet 
Beyond  the  scenes  of  mortal  strife, 

With  fair  ethereal  forms  to  meet, 
That  tell  us  of  the  after  life  ? 

No  God  ! — Who  fixed  the  solid  ground 

Of  pillars  strong,  that  alter  not  ? 
Who  spread  the  curtained  skies  around? 

Who  doth  the  ocean  bounds  allot? 

Who  all  things  to  perfection  brought 
On  earth  below,  in  heaven  above  ? 

Go  ask  the  fool,  of  impious  thought, 
W^ho  dares  to  say,  "  Tiieue  is  no  God  !  " 


THE  EXISTENCE  OF  A   GOD. 

"  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God." 

Go  out  beneath  the  arched  heavens,  at  night,  and  say 
if  you  can,  "There  is  no  God!  "  Pronounce  that  dread- 
ful blasphemy,  and  each  star  above  you  will  reproach 
the  unbroken  darkness  of  your  intellect ;  every  voice 
that  floats  upon  the  night  winds  will  bewail  your  utter 
hopelessness  and  folly. 

Is  there  no  God  ?  Who,  tlien,  unrolled  the  blue  scroll, 
and  threw  upon  its  high  fruiiLispiece  the  legible  gleam- 
ings  of  immortality  ?  Who  fashioned  this  green  earth, 
with  its  perpetual  rolling  watere,  and  its  wide  expanse 
of  islands  and  of  main?  Whosettled  the  foundations  of 
the  mountains?  Who  paved  the  heavens  with  clouds,  and 


52  ONE   HUNDRED    CH  O  I  CE   8E  LECT  I  O  NS 

attuned,  amid  the  clamor  of  storms,  the  voice  of  thunders, 
and  unchained  the  lightnings  that  flash  in  their  gloom  ? 
Who  gave  to  the  eagle  a  safe  eyrie  where  the  tempests 
dwell,  and  beat  the  strongest,  and  to  the  dove  a  tranquil 
abode  amid  the  forests  that  echo  to  the  minstrelsy  of  her 
moan  ?  Who  made  thee,  O  man !  with  thy  perfected 
elegance  of  intellect  and  form?  Who  made  the  light 
pleasant  to  thee,  and  the  darkness  a  covering,  and  a 
herald  to  the  first  gorgeous  flashes  of  the  morning? 

There  is  a  God.  All  nature  declares  it  in  a  language 
too  plain  to  be  misapprehended.  The  great  truth  is  too 
legibly  written  over  the  face  of  the  whole  creation  to  be 
easily  mistaken.  Thou  canst  behold  it  in  the  tender 
blade  just  starting  from  the  earth  in  the  early  spring,  or 
in  the  sturdy  oak  that  has  withstood  the  blasts  of  four- 
score winters.  The  purling  rivulet,  meandering  through 
downy  meads  and  verdant  glens,  and  Niagara's  tremen- 
dous torrent,  leaping  over  its  awful  chasm,  and  rolling 
in  majesty  its  broad  sheet  of  waters  onward  to  the  ocean, 
unite  in  proclaiming — There  is  a  God. 

'Tis  heard  in  the  whispering  breeze  and  in  the  howl- 
ing storm  ;  in  the  deep-toned  thunder,  and  in  the  earth- 
quake's shock ;  'tis  declared  to  us  when  the  tempest  lowers, 
when  the  hurricane  sweeps  over  the  land,  when  the  winds 
moan  around  our  dwellings,  and  die  in  sullen  murmurs 
on  the  plain,  when  the  heavens,  overcast  with  blackness, 
ever  and  anon  are   illuminated  by  the  lightning's  glare. 
Nor  is  the  truth  less  solemnly  impressed  on  our  minds 
in  the  universal  hush  and  calm   repose  of  nature,  when 
all  is  still  as  the  soft   breathings  of  an  infant's  slumber. 
The  vast  ocean,  when  its  broad  expanse  is  whitened  with 
foam,  and  when  its  heaving  waves  roll  mountain  on 
mountain  high,  or  when  the  dark  blue  of  heaven's  vault 
is  reflected  with  beauty  on  its  smooth  and  tranquil  bosom, 
confirms  the  declaration.     The  twinkling  star,  shedding 
its  flickering  rays  so  far  above  the  reach  of  human  ken, 
and  the  glorious  sun   in  the  heavens, — all,  all  declare, 
there  is  a  universal  First  Cause. 


N  U  M  B  !£  K    F  I  V  E.  53 

And  man,  tlie  proud  lord  of  creation,  so  fearfully  and 
woudcirfuily  made, — eacli  joint  in  its  corresponding  socket, 
each  muscle,  tendon,  and  artery  performing  tlieir  allot- 
ted functions  vvitU  all  the  precision  of  the  most  perfect 
mechanism,  and,  surpassing  all,  possessed  of  a  soul  capa- 
ble of  enjoying  the  mosL  exquisite  pleasure,  or  of  endur- 
ing the  most  excruciating  pain,  which  is  endowed  with 
immortal  capacities,  and  is  destined  to  live  onward  through 
the  endless  ages  of  eternity, — these  all  unite  in  one  gen- 
eral proclamation  of  the  eternal  truth  that  there  is  a 
Being,  infinite  in  wisdom,  who  reigns  over  all,  undivided 
and  supreme,  the  fountain  of  all  life,  source  of  all  light, 
from  whom  all  blessings  How,  and  in  whom  all  happiness 
centres. 


ARTEMUS  WARD  VISITS  THE  SHAKERS. 

The  Shakers  is  the  strangest  religious  sex  I  ever  met. 
I'd  hearn  tell  of  'em  and  I'd  seen  'em,  with  their  broad 
brimmed  hats  and  long  wastid  coats;  but  I'd  never  cum 
into  immcjit  contack  with  'em. 

But  one  dark  and  stormy  night,  when  the  winds  blew 
pityusly,  I  got  swampt  in  the  exterior  of  New  York 
State,  and  was  forced  to  tie  up  with  the  Shakers. 

I  was  toilin  threw  the  mud,  when  in  the  dim  vister  of 
the  filter  I  obsarved  the  gleams  of  a  taller  candle.  Tiein 
a  hornet's  nest  to  my  off  boss's  tail  to  kinder  encourage 
him,  I  soon  reached  the  place.  I  knockt  at  the  door, 
which  it  was  opened  unto  me  by  a  tall,  slick-faced,  solum 
lookin  individooal,  wlio  turned  out  to  be  a  elder. 

"  Mr.  Shaker,"  sed  I,  "  you  see  before  you  a  Babe  in 
the  Woods,  so  to  speak,  an<l  he  axes  a  shelter  of  you." 

"  Yay,"  sed  the  shaker,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the 
house,  another  Shaker  bein  sent  to  put  my  horse  and 
wagon  under  kiver. 

A  solum  female,  lookin  somewhat  like  a  last  years 
bean-pole  stuck  into  a  long  meal-bag,  cum  in  and  axed 
me  was  I  athirst  and  did  I  hunger?     To  which  I  asser- 


54  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

ted,  "A  few."  She  went  orf,  and  I  endeavored  to  open 
a  conversation  with  the  old  man. 

"  Elder,  I  spect,"  sed  I. 

"  Yay,"  he  said. 

"  Health's  good,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Yay."^ 

"  What's  the  wages  of  a  elder,  when  he  understands 
his  bizness— or  do  you  devote  your  sarvicesgratooitous?" 

"  Yay," 

"  Storm  nigh,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yay." 

"  If  the  storm  continners  there'll  be  a  mess  underfoot, 
hay  ? " 

"  Yay." 

"  If  I  may  be  s6  bold,  kind  sir,  what's  the  price  of  that 
pecooler  kind  of  wesketyou  wear,  includin  trimmin's?" 

"  Yay." 

"  I  pawsed  a  minit,  and  then,  thinkin  I'd  be  faseshus 
with  him  and  see  how  that  would  go,  I  slapt  him  on  the 
shoulder,  burst  into  a  hearty  larf,  and  told  him  that  as 
a  yayer  he  had  no  living  ekel. 

He  jumped  up  as  if  bilin  water  had  been  squirted  into 
his  ears,  groaned,  rolled  his  eyes  up  tords  the  sealin  and 
sed  :     "  You'i-e  a  man  of  sin  !  " 

He  then  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Direckly  thar  cum  in  two  young  Shakeresses,  as  putty 
and  slick  lookin  galls  as  I  ever  met.  It  is  troo  they  was 
drest  in  meal-bags  like  the  old  one  I'd  met  previsly,  and 
their  shiny,  silky  hair  was  hid  from  sight  by  long,  white 
caps,  such  as  I  spose  female  gosts  wear ;  but  their  eyes 
sparkled  like  diamonds,  their  cheeks  was  like  roses,  and 
they  was  charmin  enuff  to  make  a  man  throw  stuns  at 
his  grandmother,  if  they  axed  him  to.  They  commenst 
clearing  away  the  dishes,  casting  shy  glances  at  me  all 
the  time.  I  got  excited.  I  forgot  Betsey  Jane  in  my 
rapter,  and  sez  I,   "  My  pretty  dears,  how  air  you  ?  " 

"  We  air  well,"  they  solumly  sed. 

"  Where  is  the  old  man?"  said  I,  in  a  soft  voice. 

"  Of  whom  dost  thou  speak,^Brother  Uriah  ?  " 


NUMBER  FIVfi.  55 

"  I  mean  that  gay  and  festive  chap  who  calls  me  a  man 
of  sin.     Shouldn't  wonder  if  his  name  wasn't  Uriah." 

"  He  has  retired." 

"  Wall,  my  pretty  dears,"  sez  I,  '"let's  have  some  fun. 
Let's  play  puss  in  the  corner.     What  say  ?  " 

"Air.  you  a  Shaker,  sir  ?  "  they  asked. 

"  Wall,  my  pretty  dears,  I  haven't  arrayed  my  proud 
form  in  a  long  weskit  yet,  but  if  they  wus  all  like  you 
perhaps  I'd  jine  'em.  As  it  is,  I  am  willing  to  be  a  Shak- 
er protemporary." 

They  was  full  of  fun.  I  seed  that  at  fust,  only  they 
was  a  little  skeery.  I  tawt  'em  puss  in  the  corner,  and 
sich  like  plase,  and  we  had  a  nice  time,  keepin  quiet  of 
course,  so  that  the  old  man  couldn't  hear.  When  we 
broke  up,  sez  I : 

"  My  pretty  dears,  ear  I  go,  you  have  no  objections, 
have  you,  to  a  innersent  kiss  at  partin  ?  " 

"  Yay,"  they  said,  and  I — -yayed. 


DEATH  OF  AN  INEBRIATE. 

Raise  me  up  gently — there  I 
Oh !  give  a  breath  of  the  pure,  cold  air ; 

I  am  dying  at  last— 

I  am  going  so  fast — 
But  no  one  will  care  how  soon  I  am  cold  ; 
They  will  hurry  me  under  the  damp,  dark  mould, 
And  "  Only  a  pauper,"  they'll  say  as  they  pass, 
"Another  poor  wretch  is  buried  ;  alas! 
That  all  were  not  lying  beneath  the  sod 
Who  set  at  naught  the  great  laws  of  God." 

Bring  water  I  pray  ; 
I  drank  nothing  else  in  my  childhood's  day — 
How  it  ran  by  our  door! 
How  it  leaped  on  the  shore ! 
Oh  !  why  did  I  drink  from  the  poisoned  bowl 
That  has  wrecked  my  life  and  ruined  my  soul  ? 
That  has  laid  in  the  grave  my  lovely  wife, 
And  fillod  my  life  with  bitterest  strife? 
Why  are  yon  here?    Can  you  say  me  a  prayer? 
Do  you  think  I  can  find  forgiveness  up  there? 


66  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

What  a  wretch  I  have  been ! 

None  but  God  knoweth  how  great  ia  my  sin  ; 
But  the  bowl  I've  forsook — 
Have  you  'mong  you  a  book, 

The  book  that  tells  of  the  "  prodigal  son?  " 

Ah  !  the  lifo  that  God  gave  me  is  almost  gone ; 

The  shadows  are  deepening,  my  eyes  are  dim. 

I  have  heard  your  prayer  and  beautiful  hymn; 

I  may  be  forgiven— God  knows  alone — 

I  shall  trust  and  hope  to  behold  his  throne. 

I  am  going — good  bye ! 
No  one  loves  me  down  here  — I  hope  that  on  high 

My  pure  wife  waits  for  me 

By  the  great  crystal  sea ; 
She  loved  me  till  death,  so  true  was  her  heart. 
'Twill  be  sweet  thus  to  meet  her,  never  to  part, 
Where  no  tempter  can  come,  on  a  glorified  shore : 
My  life  has  been  bitter— I'm  glad  'tis  most  o'er. 
Your  faces  look  sad— oh  !  strive  ye  to  save 
Some  youth  from  despair  and  a  vile  drunkard's  grave. 


THE  VISION  OF  IMiVIORTALITY.— E.  P.  Weston. 

Yet  once  again,  O  man  !  come  forth  and  view 
The  haunts  of  nature  ;  walk  the  waving  fields, 
Enter  the  silent  groves,  or  pierce  again 
The  depths  of  the  untrodden  wilderness. 
And  she  shall  teach  thee.    Thou  hast  learned  before 
One  lesson,  and  her  Hymn  of  Death  hatli  fallen 
With  melancholy  sweetness  on  thine  ear ; 
Yet  she  shall  tell  thee  with  a  myriad  tongue 
That  life  is  there — life  in  uncounted  forms  — 
Stealing  in  silence  through  the  hidden  roots. 
In  every  branch  that  swings,  in  the  green  leaves 
And  wa/ing  grain,  and  the  gay  summer  flowers 
That  gladden  the  beholder.     Listen  now, 
And  she  shall  teach  thee  that  the  dead  have  slept 
But  to  awaken  in  more  glorious  forms  ; 
And  that  the  mystery  of  the  seed's  decay 
Is  but  the  promise  of  the  coming  life. 
Each  towering  oak  that  lifts  its  living  head 
To  the  broad  sunlight,  in  eternal  strength, 
Glorias  to  tell  thee  that  the  acorn  died  I 


NUMBER   FI  VK.  57 

The  flowers  that  spring  above  their  last  year's  grave 
Are  eloquent  with  the  voice  of  life  and  hope ; 
And  the  green  trees  clap  their  rejoicing  hands, 
AVaving  in  triumph  o'er  the  eartli's  decay  ! 
Yet  not  alone  shall  flower  and  forest  raise 
The  voice  of  triumph  and  the  hymn  of  life. 
The  insect  brood  is  there:— each  painted  wing 
That  flutters  in  the  sunshine,  burst  but  now  • 

From  the  close  cerements  of  a  worm's  own  shroud, 
Is  telling,  as  it  flies,  how  life  may  spring 
In  its  glad  beauty  from  the  gloom  of  death. 

Where  the  crushed  mould  beneath  thy  sunken  foot 
Seems  but  the  sepulchre  of  old  decay, 
Turn  thou  a  keener  glance,  and  thou  shalt  find 
The  gathered  myriads  of  a  mimic  world. 
The  breath  of  evening  and  of  sultry  morn 
Bears  on  its  wing  a  cloud  of  witnesses 
That  earth  from  her  unnumbered  caves  of  death 
Sends  forth  a  mightier  tide  of  teeming  life. 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Immortality ! 
The  broad  green  prairies  and  the  wilderness, 
And  the  old  cities  where  the  dead  have  slept, 
Age  upon  age,  a  thousand  graves  in  one, 
Shall  yet  be  crowded  with  the  living  forms 
Of  myriads,  waking  from  the  silent  dust. 
Kings  that  lay  down  in  state,  and  earth's  poor  slaves, 
Resting  together  in  one  long  embrace; 
The  white-haired  patriarch  and  the  tender  babe 
Grown  old  together  in  the  flight  of  years; 
They  of  immortal  fame  and  they  whose  praise 
Was  never  sounded  in  the  ears  of  men  ; 
Archon  and  priest,  and  the  poor  common  «rowd, — 
All  the  vast  concourse  in  the  halls  of  death 
Shall  waken  from  the  sleep  of  silent  years 
To  hail  the  dawn  of  the  immortal  day. 
Aye,  learn  the  lesson  !     Though  the  worm  shall  be 
Thy  brother  in  the  mystery  of  death, 
And  all  shall  pass,  humble  and  proud  and  gay, 
Together  to  earth's  mi«_dity  charnel-house, 
Yet  the  immortal  is  thy  heritage  ! 
The  grave  shall  gather  thee.    Yet  thou  shalt  come, 
Beggar  or  prince,  not  as  thou  wentest  forth, 
In  rags  or  purple,  but  arrayed  as  those 
Whose  mortal  puts  on  immortality  I 

3* 


58  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Then  mourn  not  when  thou  markest  the  decay 
Of  nature,  and  her  solemn  hymn  of  death 
Steals  with  a  note  of  sadness  to  thy  heart. 
That  other  voice,  with  its  rejoicing  tones, 
Breaks  from  the  mould  with^very  bursting  flower, 
"  O  grave !  thy  victory ! "     And  thou,  O  man  ! 
Burdened  with  sorrow  at  the  woes  which  crowd 
.      This  narrow  heritage,  lift  up  thy  head 
In  the  strong  hope  of  the  undying  life, 
And  shout  the  hymn  to  Immortality. 
The  dear  departed  that  have  passed  away 
To  the  still  house  of  death,  leaving  thine  own  ; 
The  gray-haired  sire  that  died  \n  blessing  thee, 
Mother,  or  sweet-lipped  babe,  or  slie  who  gave 
Thy  home  the  light  and  bloom  of  jiaradise, — 
They  shall  be  thine  again,  when  ihou  shalt  pass, 
At  God's  appointment,  through  the  shadowy  vale. 
To  reach  tiie  sunlight  of  the  immortal  hills. 
And  thou  that  gloriest  to  lie  down  with  kings,     ' 
Thine  uncrowned  head  no  lowlier  than  theirs, 
Seek  thou  the  loftier  glory  to  be  known 
A  king  and  priest  to  God — when  thou  shalt  pass 
Forth  from  these  silent  halls  to  take  thy  place 
AVith  patriarchs  and  prophets  and  the  blest 
Gone  up  from  every  land  to  people  heaven. 

So  live,  that  when  the  mighty  caravan 
Which  halts  one  night-time  in  the  vale  of  death, 
Shall  strike  its  white  tenis  for  the  morning  march. 
Thou  shalt  mount  onward  to  the  Eternal  Hills, 
Thy  foot  unwearied,  and  thy  strength  renewed, 
Like  the  strong  eagle's  for  the  upward  flight ! 
• 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

A  tribute  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  by  the  Rev.  Phillips  Brooks.  Philadelphia,  1865. 

So  let  him  lie  here  in  our  midst  to-day,  and  let  our  peo- 
ple go  and  bend  with  solemn  thoughtfulness  and  look  upon 
his  face  and  read  the  lessons  of  his  burial.  As  he  paused 
here  on  his  journey  from  his  Western  home  and  told  us 
what  by  the  help  of  God  he  meant  to  do,  so  let  him 
pause  upon  his  way  back  to  his  Western  grave  and  tell 
us,  with  a  silence  more  eloquent  than  words,  how  bravely. 


N  U  M  B  i:  E    F  I  V  E. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said, 
"  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone. 
And  for  your  sake — the  woman  that  he  chose — 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come -to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest ;  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  w'ill  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  oif,  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  but  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  failed  her ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound  ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat, 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then,  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field. 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday? 
AVhose  child  is  that?     What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answered  softly.     "  This  is  William's  child!  " 
"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allen,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again, 
"Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone !  " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 


63 


64  ONE   HUNDREn   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


1 


To  slight  it.    AV ell— for  I  will  take  the  boy^; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.    (She  bowed  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.    She  bowed  down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.    She  bowed  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reaped 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 

Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 

Was  not  with  Dora.    She  broke  out  in  praise 

To  God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood. 

And  Dora  said,  '■  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 

But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you : 

He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 

Then  answered  Mary,  "This  shall  never  be, 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself; 

And,  now  1  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 

For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 

His  mother ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go,  ^ 

And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  liome; 

And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  ; 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 

Then  tuou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 

And  work  for  William's  child  until  he  grows 

Of  age  to  help  us."  . 

So  the  women  kissed 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reached  the  farm. 

The  door  was  ofi"  the  latch ;  they  peeped,  and  saw 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 

Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 

And  clapped  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 

Like  one  that  loved  him ;  and  the  lad  stretched  out 

And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 

From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 

Then  they  came  in  ;  but  when  the  boy  beheld 

His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her ; 

And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said, 

"  Oh,  father,— if  you  let  me  call  you  so,— 

I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 

Or  William,  or  this  child ;  but  now  I  come 


N  U  M  B  E  R  F I  V  K.  65 

Fc  Dora:  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you  well. 

Ob,  sir!  when  WilUam  died,  he  died  at  peace 

"With  all  men  ;  for  I  asked  him,  and  he  said 

He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me. 

I  had  been  a  patient  wife  ;  but,  sir,  he  said 

That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus  : 

'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  'and  may  he  never  know 

The  troubles  I  have  gone  through! '     Then  he  turned 

His  face  and  passed— unhappy  that  I  am ! 

Eut  now,  sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 

Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 

His  father's  memory;  and  take  Dora  back, 

And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs; 
"I've  been  to  blame,— to  blame.   I  have  killed  my  son 
I  have  killed  him— but  I  loved  him — my  dear  son! 
May  God  forgive  me !  I  have  been  to  blame, 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred  fold ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  iMary  took  anotlier  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


THE  LITTLE  CHURCH   ROUND  THE  CORNER. 
A.  E.  Lancaster. 

Kev.  Dr.  HouRhtnn  offiiiated  at  the  burial  of  George  Holland,  a  compdian,  In 
New  York  City,  after  another  minister  liaii  refuged  his  services.  For  this  act  of 
Christian  duty,  as  he  considered,  he  was  made  the  recipient  of  large  sums  of 
money,— the  proceeds  of  numerous  testimonial  t)eneftts,  in  various  parts  of  tlio 
Union,— all  (jf  which  he  cnnscientiously  declined  on  his  own  account,  and  tlcit 
of  his  church,  but  accepted  in  trust,  to  bo  used  only  for  charitable  purposes. 
This  selection  and  the  one  following  relate  to  the  occurrence. 

"  Bring  him  not  here  where  our  sainted  feet 

Are  treading  the  path  to  glory  ; 
Bring  him  not  here,  where  our  Saviour  sweet 

Repeats,  for  u.<t,  His  story. 


66  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Go,  take  him  where  'such  things'  are  done, — 
For  he  sat  in  tlie  seat  of  the  scorner, — 

To  where  tliey  have  room,  for  we  have  none, 
To  that  Uttle  church  round  the  corner." 

So  spake  the  holy  man  of  God 

Of  another  man,  his  brother, 
Whose  cold  remains,  ere  they  sought  the  sod, 
Had  only  asked  that  a  Christian  rite 
Might  be  read  above  them  by  one  whose  light 

Was,  "  Brethren,  love  one  another  ;" 
Had  only  asked  that  a  prayer  be  read 
Ere  his  tlesh  went  down  to  join  the  dead, 
Whilst  his  spirit  looked,  with  suppliant  eyes, 
Searching  for  God  throughout  tlie  skies. 
But  the  priest  frowned  "  No,"  and  his  brow  was  bare 

Of  love  in  the  sight  of  the  mourner. 
And  they  looked  for  Christ  and  found  him— where  1 

In  that  little  church  round  the  corner ! 

Ah,  well !  God  grant,  when,  with  aching  feet. 

We  tread  life's  last  few  paces, 
That  we  may  hear  some  accents  sweet. 

And  kiss,  to  the  end,  fond  faces! 
God  grant  that  this  tired  flesh  may  rest, 

Mid  many  a  musing  mourner, 
While  the  sermon  is  preached  and  the  rites  are  read 
In  no  church  where  the  heart  of  love  is  dead. 
And  the  pastor  a  pious  prig  at  best, 
But  in  some  small  nook  where  God's  confessed, — 
Some  little  church  round  the  corner! 


. 


THE  POOR  PLAYER  AT  THE  GATE.* 
Geokge  Vandeniioff. 

Wisely,  good  Uncle  Toby  said, 
"  If  here,  below,  the  right  we  do, 

'Twill  ne'er  be  asked  of  us  above 
What  coat  we  wore,  red,  black,  or  blue." 

At  heaven's  high  chancery,  gracious  deeds 
Shall  count  before  professions. 

And  humble  virtues,  clad  in  weeds, 
Shall  rank  o'er  rich  possessions. 

*VViitten  anil  spoken  fur  the  Holland  Testimonial,   at  Wallack's,  the  Fifth 
Avenue,  Niblu's,  and  the  Academy  of  Music,  New  York. 


NUMBER   FIVK.  67 

So  the  poor  player's  motley  garb, 

If  truth  and  worth  adorn  it, 
May  pass  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 

Though  churls  and  bigots  scorn  it. 

The  Lord  of  Love,  the  world's  great  Light, 

Made  publicans  his  care ; 
And  Pharisees  alone  demurred 

That  such  His  gifts  should  share. 

But  still  He  held  his  gracious  way. 

Soothing  the  humblest  mourner. 
Nor  ever  bade  one  sinner  seek 

For  comfort  "round  the  corner." 

The  woman  that  in  sin  was  ta'en, 
Bowed  down  with  guilt  and  shame, 

Found  pity  in  that  breast  divine 
That  knew  no  taint  of  blame. 

The  Pharisees  all  gathered  round 

To  taunt,  revile,  and  stone  her ; 
Christ  bade  her  "  Go  and  sin  no  more," 

His  mercy  would  atone  her ; 

He  raised  from  death  the  widow's  son, 

Nor  asked  his  trade,  profession  ; 
Enough  for  Him,  a  mother's  faith 

In  His  divine  compassion. 

He  healed  the  palsied,  halt,  and  blind. 

Nor  left  one  heart  forlorner; 
He  never  bade  them  go  and  find 

A  doctor — "round  the  corner." 

Some  modern  saints  too  dainty  are 

To  walk  in  paths  like  these ; 
They'd  lock  the  gates  of  heaven  on  woe, 

If  they  but  held  the  keys. 

The  widow's  friends  ask  prayers  o'er  him 
From  whom  death's  hand  has  torn  her; 

The  saintly  man  refers  him  to 

"  The  small  church  round  the  corner." 

What  is  there  in  the  players  art 

Should  close  the  fount  of  love? 
He  wlio  on  earth  plays  well  his  part 

May  hope  a  seat  above. 


68  ONE    HUNDBED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  lessons  he  has  wreathed  with  smiles, 
The  hearts  his  mirth  made  lighter 

Shall  plead  like  angels'  tongues  for  grace, 
And  make  his  record  brighter. 

And  though  not  nearest  to  the  throne. 
Yet  sure  the  lowest  born,  or 

The  actor  in  the  veriest  bar, 
May  hnd  in  heaven  a  corner. 

All  honor  to  the  little  church. 
And  to  its  gracious  pastor, 

Who  in  his  heart  the  lessons  kept, 
Taught  by  his  heavenly  Master ! 

And  when  this  fleeting  scene  is  past 
To  sinner,  saint,  and  scorner, 

Let's  hope  we  all  may  lind,  at  last, 
A  bright  home  round  the  corner. 


MR.  CAUDLE  HAVING  LENT  FIVE  POUNDS 
TO  A  FRIEND.— Douglas  Jerrold. 

You  ought  to  be  very  rich,  Mr.  Caudle.  I  wonder 
who'd  lend  you  five  pounds !  But  so  it  is  :  a  wife  may 
work  and  slave.  Oh,  dear !  the  many  things  that  might 
have  been  done  with  five  pounds  !  As  if  people  picked 
up  money  in  the  streets !  But  you  always  were  a  fool, 
Mr.  Caudle !  I've  wanted  a  black  satin  gown  these  three 
years,  and  that  five  pounds  would  have  pretty  well  bought 
it.  But  it's  no  matter  hovv  I  go, — not  at  all.  Every- 
body says  I  don't  dress  as  becomes  your  wife — and  I 
don't;  but  what's  that  to  you,  Mr.  Caudle?  Nothing. 
Oh,  no !  you  can  have  fine  feelings  for  everybody  but 
those  that  belong  to  you.  I  wish  people  knew  you  as  I 
do — that's  all.  You  like  to  be  callel  liberal  and  your 
poor  family  pays  for  it. 

And  the  girls  want  bonnets,  and  when  they're  to  get 
'em  I  can't  tell.  Half  five  pounds  would  have  bought 
*em,  but  now  they  must  go  without.  Of  course,  they  be- 
long to  you  ;  and  anybody  but  your  own  fiesh  and  blood, 
Mr.  Caudle. 


N  U  M  B  E  li    F  I  V  U\  69 

^  The  man  called  for  the  water-rate  to-day ;  but  I  should 
like  to  know  how  people  are  to  pay  taxes  who  throw  a- 
way  five  pounds  to  every  fellow  that  asks  them. 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  Jack,  this  morning, 
knocked  the  shuttlecock  through  his  bedroom  window. 
I  was  going  to  send  for  the  glazier  to  mend  it ;  but,  after 
you  lent  that  five  pounds,  I  was  sure  we  couldn't  afford 
it.  Oh,  no ;  the  window  must  go  as  it  is ;  and  pretty 
weather  for  a  dear  child  to  sleep  with  a  broken  window. 
He's  got  a  cold  already  on  his  lungs,  and  I  shouldn't  at 
all  wonder  if  that  broken  window  settled  him  ;  if  the  dear 
boy  dies,  his  death  will  be  upon  his  father's  head,  ^or 
I'm  sure  we  can't  now  pay  to  mend  windows.  We  might, 
though,  and  do  a  good  many  more  things^  if  joeople  didn't 
throw  away  their  five  pounds. 

Next  Tuesday  the  fire  insurance  is  due.  I  should  like 
to  know  how  it's  to  be  paid.  Why,  it  can't  be  i)aid  at 
all.  That  five  pounds  would  have  just  done  it,  and  now 
insurance  is  out  of  the  question.  And  there  never  were" 
so  many  fires  as  there  are  now.  I  shall  never  close  my 
eyes  all  night ;  but  what's  that  to  you,  so  people  can  call 
you  liberal,  Mr.  Caudle?  Your  wife  and  children  may 
all  be  burnt  alive  in  their  beds,  as  all  of  us  to  a  certainty 
shall  be,  for  the  insurance  must  drop.  After  we've  in- 
sured fi)r  so  many  years !  But  how,  I  should  like  to 
know,  are  people  to  insure  who  make  ducks  and  di'akes 
of  their  five  pounds? 

I  did  think  we  might  go  to  Margate  this  summer. 
There's  poor  Caroline,  I'm  sure  she  wants  the  sea.  But 
no,  dear  creature,  she  must  stop  at  home ;  she'll  go  into 
a  consumption,  there's  no  doubt  of  that ;  yes,  sweet  lit- 
tle angel.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  lose  her  now.  The 
child  might  have  been  saved  ;  but  people  can't  save  their 
children  and  throw  away  five  pounds  too. 

I  wonder  where  little  Cherub  is  ?  While  you  were 
lending  that  five  pounds,  the  dog  ran  out  of  the  shoj). 
You  know  I  never  let  it  go  into  the  street,  for  fear  it 
should  be  bit  by  some  mad  dog  and  come  home  and  bite 


70  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

the  children.  It  wouldn't  at  all  astonish  me  if  the  ani- 
mal was  to  corae  back  with  the  hydrophobia  and  give  it 
to  all  the  family.  However,  what's  your  family  to  you, 
so  you  can  play  the  liberal  creature  with  live  pounds  ? 
.  Do  you  hear  that  shutter,  how  it's  banging  to  and  fro  ? 
Yes,  I  know  what  it  wants  as  well  as  you :  it  wants  a 
new  fastening.  1  was  going  to  send  for  the  blacksmith 
to-day.  But  now  it's  out  of  the  question  :  now  it  must 
bang  of  nights,  since  you  have  thrown  away  five  pounds. 

Well,  things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass!  This  is  the 
first  night  I  ever  made  my  supper  of  roast  beef  without 
pickles.  But  who  is  to  afford  pickles  when  folks  are  al- 
ways lending  five  pounds? 

Do  you  hear  the  mice  running  about  the  room  ?  I 
hear  them.  If  they  Avere  only  to  drag  you  out  of  bed,  it 
would  be  no  matter.  Set  a  trap  for  'enif  But  how  are 
people  to  afford  the  cheese,  when  every  day  they  lose 
five  pounds? 

Hark !  I'm  sure  there's  a  noise  down  stairs.  It  wouldn't 
surprise  me  if  there  were  thieves  in  the  house.  Well, 
it  may  be  the  cat ;  but  thieves  are  pretty  sure  to  come 
some  nio;ht.  There's  a  wretched  fastening;  to  the  back 
door ;  but  these  are  not  times  to  afford  bolts  and  bars, 
when  fools  wont  take  care  of  their  five  pounds. 

Mary  Anne  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  dentist's  to-mor- 
row. She  wants  three  teeth  pulled  out.  Now  it  can't 
be  done.  Three  teeth,  that  quite  disfigure  the  child's 
mouth.  But  there  they  must  stop,  and  spoil  the  sweet- 
est face  that  was  ever  made.  Otherwise  she'd  have  been 
the  wife  for  a  lord.  Now,  when  she  grows  up,  who'll 
have  her  ?  Nobody.  We  shall  die,  and  leave  her  alone 
and  unprotected  in  the  world.  But  what  do  you  care  for 
that  ?     Nothin.j ;  so  you  can  squander  away  five  pounds. 

Anduow,  Mr.  Caudle,  see  what  misery  you've  brought 
on  your  Avretched  fixmily!  I  can't  have  a  satin  gown — 
the  girls  can't  have  new  bonnets — the  water-rate  must 
stand  over — Jack  must  get  his  death  through  a  broken 
window — our  fire  insurance  can't  be  paid,  so  we  shall  all 


N  U  M  B  K  R   F  I  V  E.  71 

be  victims  to  the  devouring  element — we  can't  go  to 
^largate,  and  Caroline  will  go  to  an  early  grave — the 
dog  will  come  home  and  bite  us  all  mad — that  shutter 
will  go  banging  forever — the  mice  never  let  us  have  a 
wink  of  sleep — the  thieves  be  always  breaking  in  the 
house — and  our  dear  Mary  Anne  be  forever  left  an  un- 
protected maid — and  all,  all,  Mr.  Caudle,  because  you 
will  go  on  lending  five  pounds  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY.— T.  B.  Macaulay. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are ! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 

Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O  pleasant 
land  of  France ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the 
waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daugh- 
ters ; 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls 
annoy. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of 
war. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry  and  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Oh,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 

"With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  jjeers. 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 
spears ! 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our 
land ! 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his 
hand ; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empur- 
pled flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dal)bl('d  with  his  blood  ; 

And  we  crie<l  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  drcst, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 
crest. 


72  O  N  E   H  U  N  D  a  E  D    C  H  O  I  C  E  S  E  T.  E  C  T I  O  N  3 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  bis  eye  ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and 

high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to 

wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our  lord, 

the  King !  " 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall, — as  fall  full  well  he  may, 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, — 
Press  where  ye  see  nay  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks 

of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving!     Hark  to  the  mingled  din 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culve- 

rin. 
Tlie  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies, — upon  them  with  the  lance  ! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in 

rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  thesnow-white 

crest, 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding 

star. 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours !   Mayenne  hath  turned 

his  rein, 
D' Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter —the  Flemish  Count  is  slain  ; 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay 

gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  clo- 
ven mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van, 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew  !  "    was  passed  from  man  to 

man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry, — "  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe  T 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner !  but  let  your  brethren  iro." 
Oh,  was  there  ever  such  a  kniglit,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre? 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna ;    Ho  I  matrons  of  Lucerne  ; 
Weep,  weep  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall 
return ! 


N  U  M  B  p:  R  F  I  V  IC.  73 

Ho !  Philip,  sand  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spear- 

mens'  souls. 
Ho  !   gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be 

bright ; 
Ho !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-nigh  f . 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  halh  raised 

the  slave. 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor  of  the 

brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry  of  JSavarre. 


THE   PUREST  PEARL. 

Beside  the  church  door,  a-weary  and  alone, 
A  blind  woman  sat  on  the  cold  door-stone. 
The  wind  was  bitter,  the  snow  fell  fast, 
And  a  mocking  voice  in  the  fitful  blast 
Seemed  ever  to  echo  her  mournful  cry. 
As  she  begged  an  alms  of  the  passers-by, 
"  Have  pity  on  me,  have  pity,  I  pray  ; 
My  back  is  bent,  and  my  hair  is  gray." 

The  bells  were  ringing  the  hour  of  prayer, 
And  many  good  people  were  gathered  there ; 
But  covered  with  furs  and  mantles  warm. 
They  hurried  past  through  the  wintry  storm. 

Some  were  hoping  their  souls  to  save, 

And  some  were  thinking  of  death  and  the  grave; 

And,  alas !  tl  ay  had  no  time  to  heed 

The  poor  soul  asking  for  charity's  meed  ; 

And  s(nne  were  blooming  with  beauty's  grace, 

But  closely  muffled  in  veils  of  lace  ; 

They  saw  not  the  sorrow,  nor  heard  the  moan 

Of  her  who  sat  on  the  cold  door-stone. 

At  last  came  one  of  noble  name, 
By  the  city  counted  the  wealthiest  dame, 
And  the  pearls  that  o'er  her  neck  were  strung. 
She  proudly  there  to  the  beggar  flung. 

Then  followed  a  maiden,  young  and  fair, 
Adorned  with  clusters  of  golden  hair  ; 
But  her  dress  was  thin,  and  scanty,  atid  worn, 
Not  even  the  beggar's  seemed  more  forlorn  ; 
4 


74  ONE   HUNDKED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

With  a  tearful  look  and  a  pitying  sigh, 

She  whispered  soft,  "  No  jewels  have  I, 

But  1  give  you  my  prayers,  good  friend,"  said  she, 

"And  sure,  I  know,  God  listens  to  me." 

On  the  poor  white  hand,  so  shrunken  and  small, 
The  blind  woman  felt  a  tear-drop  fall, 
Then  kissed  it,  and  said  to  the  weeping  girl, 
"  It  is  )oa  who  have  given  the  purest  pearl." 


THE  DUELIST'S   HONOR.— Bishop    England. 

Honor  is  the  acquisition  and  preservation  of  the  dig- 
nity of  our  nature  ;  that  dignity  consists  in  its  perfection ; 
that  perfection  is  found  in  observing  the  laws  of  our 
Creator ;  the  laws  of  the  Creator  are  the  dictates  of  rea- 
son and  of  religion  ;  that  is,  the  observance  of  what  He 
teaches  us  by  the  natural  light  of  our  own  minds,  and  by 
thespecial  revelations  of  His  will  manifestly  given.  They 
both  concur  in  teaching  us  that  individuals  have  not  the 
dominion  of  their  own  lives ;  otherwise,  no  suicide  would 
be  a  criminal.  They  concur  in  teaching  us  that  we  ought 
to  be  amenable  to  the  laws  of  the  society  of  which  we  are 
merabei's ;  otherwise,  morality  and  honor  would  be  con- 
sistent with  the  violation  of  law  and  the  disturbance  of 
the  social  system.  They  teach  us  tiiat  society  cannot 
continue  to  exist  where  the  public  tribunals  are  despised 
or  undervalued,  and  the  redress  of  injuries  withdrawn 
from  the  calm  regulation  of  public  justice,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  being  committed  to  the  caprice  of  private  passion, 
and  the  execution  of  individual  ill-will ;  therefore,  the 
man  of  honor  abides  by  the  law  of  God,  reveres  the  stat- 
utes of  his  country,  and  is  respectful  and  amenable  to  its 
authorities.  Such,  my  friends,  is  what  the  reflecting  por- 
tion of  mankind  has  always  thought  upon  the  subject  of 
honor.  This  was  the  honor  of  the  Greek ;  this  was  the 
honor  of  the  Roman ;  this  the  honor  of  the  Jew  ;  this  the 
honor  of  the  Gentile ;  this,  too,  was  the  honor  of  the 
Christian,  until  the  superstition  and  barbarity  of  North- 


N  U  M  B  B  K   F  1 V  'i.  75 

ern  devastators  darkened   his  glory  and  degraded   his 
cliaracter. 

Man,  then,  has  not  power  over  his  own  life  ;  much  less 
is  he  justified  ia  depriving  another  human  being  of  life. 
Upon  what  ground  can  he  who  engages  in  a  duel,  through 
the  fear  of  ignominy,  lay  claim  to  courage?  Unfortu- 
nate delinquent !  Do  you  not  see  by  how  many  links 
your  victim  was  bound  to  a  multitude  of  others  ?  Does 
his  vain  and  idle  resignation  of  his  title  to  life  absolve 
you  from  the  enormous  claims  which  society  has  upon 
you  for  his  services, — his  family  for  that  support  of 
which  you  have  robbed  them,  without  your  own  enrich- 
ment ?  Go,  stand  over  that  body ;  call  back  that  soul 
which  you  have  driven  from  its  tenement ;  take  up  that 
hand  which  your  pride  refused  to  touch,  not  one  hour 
ago.  You  have,  in  your  pride  and  wrath,  usurped  one 
prerogative  of  God, — -you  have  inflicted  death.  At 
least,  in  mercy,  attempt  the  exercise  of  another;  breathe 
into  those  distended  nostrils, — let  your  brother  be  once 
more  a  living  soul! 

Merciful  Father!  how  powerless  are  we  for  good,  but 
how  mighty  for  evil.  Wretched  man  !  he  does  not  an- 
swer, he  cannot  rise.  All  your  efforts  to  make  him 
breathe  are  vain.  His  soul  is  already  in  the  presence 
of  your  common  Creator.  Like  the  wretched  Cain,  will 
you  answer,  "Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?  "  Why  do  you 
turn  away  from  the  contemplation  of  your  own  honora- 
ble work?  Yes,  go  as  far  as  you  will,  still  the  admoni- 
tion will  ring  in  your  ears:  It  was  by  your  hand  he  fell/ 
The  horrid  instrument  of  death  is  still  in  that  hand,  and 
the  stain  of  blood  upon  your  soul. 

Fly,  if  you  will, — go  to  that  house  which  you  have 
filled  with  desolation.  Listen  !  It  is  the  shriek  of  his 
widow, — the  cries  of  his  children, — the  broken  sobs  of 
his  parent ;  and,  amidst  the  wailings,  you  distinctly 
hear  the  voice  of  imprecation  on  your  own  guilty  head. 
Will  your  honorable  feelings  be  content  with  this  ?  Have 
you  now  had  abundant  and  gentlemanly  satisfaction? 


76  ONE    HUNCKED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 


PETER'S  RIDE  TO  THE  WEDDING. 

Peter  would  ride  to  the  wedding,— he  would, 

So  he  mounted  his  ass— and  his  wife 
She  was  to  ride  behind,  if  she  could; 
"  For,"  says  Peter,  "  the  woman,  she  should 
Follow,  not  lead  through  life. 

"  He's  mighty  convenient,  the  ass,  my  dear, 

And  proper  and  safe — and  now 
You  hold  by  the  tail,  while  I  hold  by  the  ear, 
And  we'll  ride  to  the  kirk  in  time,  never  fear, 

If  the  wind  and  the  weather  allow." 

The  wind  and  the  weather  were  not  to  be  blamed. 

But  the  ass  had  adopted  the  whim 
That  two  at  a  time  was  a  load  nevei'  framed 
For  the  back'of  one  ass,  and  he  seemed  quite  ashamed 

That  two  should  stick  fast  upon  him. 

"Come,  Dobbin,"  says  Peter,  "  I'm  thinking  we'll  trot." 

"  I'm  thinking  we  wont,"  says  ihe  ass. 
In  language  of  conduct,  and  stuck  to  the  spot 
As  if  he  had  shown  he  would  sooner  be  shot 

Than  lift  up  a  toe  from  the  grass. 

Says  Peter,  says  he,  "  I'll  whip  him  a  little, — " 

"  Try  it,  my  dear,"  says  she. 
But  he  might  just  as  well  have  whipped  a  brass  kettle ; 
The  ass  was  made  of  such  obstinate  mettle 

That  never  a  step  moved  he. 

"  I'll  prick  him,  my  dear,  with  a  needle,"  said  she, 

"  I'm  thinking  he'll  alter  his  mind." 
The  ass  felt  the  needle,  and  up  went  his  heels ; 
"  I'm  thinking,"  says  she,  "  he's  beginning  to  feel 

Some  notion  of  moving — behind." 

"  Now  lend  me  the  needle  and  I'll  prick  his  ear, 

And  set  t'other  end,  too,  a-going." 
The  ass  felt  the  needle,  and  upward  he  reared  ; 
But  kicking  and  rearing  was  all,  it  appeared. 

He  had  any  intention  of  doing. 

Says  Peter,  says  he,  "  We  get  on  rather  slow  ; 
While  one  end  is  up  t'other  sticks  to  the  ground ; 


N  U  M  B  E  R    F  I  V  E.  77 

But  I'm  thinking  a  method  to  move  him  I  know, 
Let's  prick  liead  and  tail  together,  and  so 
Give  tlie  creature  a  start  all  around." 

So  said,  so  done ;  all  hands  were  at  work, 

And  the  ass  he  did  alter  his  mind. 
For  he  started  away  with  so  sudden  a  jerk, 
That  in  less  than  a  trice  he  arrived  at  the  kirk, 

But  he  left  all  his  ladinj?  behind. 


THE  PHANTOM   ISLES.-John  Monsell. 

In  the  Bay  of  New  York  there  are  many  small  islands,  the  frequent  resort  of 
Buininer  pleasuie-parties.  One  of  the  dangers  hauiiti.jg  these  scenes  of  ani.iso- 
rnent  is  that  high  tides  oft  'U  cover  the  islands.  The  incidents  recorded  in  the 
fullowitig  lines  actnally  took  place  nnder  the  circumstances  mentioned,  and  the 
entire  change  in  the  heart  an  I  life  of  tile  bereaved  father  makes  the  simple  stoiy 
as  instructive  as  it  is  interesting  and  touching. 

The  Phantom  Isles  are  fading  from  the  sea; 

The  groups  that  thronged  them  leave  their  sinking  shores; 
And  shout  and  laugh,  and  jocund  catch  and  glee 

Ring  through  the  mist,  to  beat  of  punctual  oars, 
Through  the  gray  mist  that  comes  up  with  the  tide, 
And  covers  all  the  ocean  far  and  wide. 

Of  the  gay  revelers  one  child  alone 

Was  wanting  at  the  roll's  right  merry  call ; 

From  boat  to  boat  they  sought  him  ;  he  was  gone. 
And  fear  and  trembling  tilled  the  hearts  of  all; 

For  the  damp  mist  was  falling  fast  the  while. 

And  the  sea,  ri.sing,  swallowing  up  each  isle. 

The  trembling  father  guides  the  searching  band, 
While  every  sinew  hope  and  fear  can  strain 

Is  stretched  to  bring  the  quiv'ring  boat  to  land, 
And  find  the  lost  one — but  is  stretched  in  vain, 

No  land  they  find,  but  one  sweet  call  they  hear, 

"Steer  this  way,  father!  this  way,  father  dear!" 

That  voice  they  follow,  certain  they  have  found. 
But  vainly  sweep  the  waters  o'er  and  o'er; 

The  whisi>'ring  waves  liave  ceased  their  rijipling  sound. 
Their  silent^e  telling  the}/  have  lost  their  shore  : 

Yet  still  the  sweet  young  voice  cries  loud  and  clear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear  ! " 


78  OXK    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Onward  they  rush,  like  those  who  in  the  night 
Follow  the  phantom  Hanie,  but  never  find  ; 

Now  certain  that  the  voice  has  led  them  right, 
Yet  the  next  moment  hearing  it  behind  ; 

But  wrapt  in  gurgling,  smothered  sounds  of  fear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear !  " 

The  night  is  spent  in  vain ;   no  further  cry 

Cheers  them  with  hope,  or  wilders  them  with  fear; 

With  breaking  morning,  as  the  mists  sweep  by. 
They  can  see  nothing  but  wide  waters  drear; 

Yet  ever  in  the  childless  father's  ear 

Kings  the  sad  cry,  "  Steer  this  wa}',  father  dear  ! " 

And  on  through  life,  across  its  changeful  tide, 
Where  many  a  doubtful  course  before  him  lay, 

That  sweet  young  voice  did  help  him  to  decide 
When  others  strove  to  lure  his  bark  astray  ; 

Calling  from  heaven,  in  accents  soft  and  clear, 

"Steer  this  way,  father!  this  way,  father  dear!  " 

Until,  at  length,  drawn  upward  to  the  land 
Where  there  is  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  sea, 

Cheering  him  brightly  from  its  crystal  strand 
Into  the  haven  where  his  soul  would  be, — 

These  its  last  whispers  in  his  dying  ear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear ! " 


HOTSrUR'S  DEFENCE.-SiiAKSPEARE. 

My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners, 

But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 

Wiien  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  extreme  toil, 

Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword. 

Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dressed, 

Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reaped, 

Showed  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 

He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  ; 

And  'twixt  his  finger  and  thumb  he  held 

A  pouncet-box  which  ever  and  anon 

He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again  ; — 

Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 

Took  it  in  snuff ;— and  still  he  smiled  and  talked; 

And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  79 

He  called  them — untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 

To  bring  a  slovenly,  unhandsome  corse 

Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 

With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 

He  questioned  me  ;  among  the  rest  demanded 

My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 

I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 

To  be  so  i^estered  with  a  popinjay. 

Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 

Answered  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what ; 

He  should  or  he  should  not ;— for  he  made  me  mad 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet. 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman 

Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds  (God  save  the  mark!), 

And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 

"Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise ; 

And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was. 

That  villanous  saltpetre  should  be  digged 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 

AVhich  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroyed 

So  cowardly  ;  and  but  for  these  vile  guns, 

He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

This  bald,  disjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 

I  answered  indirectly,  as  I  said  ; 

And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 

Come  current  for  an  accusation 

Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 


VALUE   OF  REPUTATION.— Charles  Phillips. 

Who  shall  estimate  the  cost  of  a  priceless  reputation, — 
that  impress  which  gives  this  human  dross  its  currency ; 
without  which  we  stand  despised,  debased,  depreciated? 
Who  shall  repair  it  injured?  Who  can  redeem  it  lost? 
Oh,  well  and  truly  does  the  great  j)hilosopher  of  poetry 
esteem  the  world's  wealth  as  "trash"  in  the  comparison. 
Without  it,  gold  has  no  value  ;  birth,  no  distinction  ;  sta- 
tion, no  dignity;  beauty,  no  charm;  age,  no  reverence,,. 
Without  it  every  treasure  impoverishes,  every  grace  de- 
forms, every  dignity  degrades,  and  all  the  arts,  the  dec- 
orations, and  accomplishments  of  life,  stand,  like  the  bea- 


80  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

con-blaze  upon  a  rock,  warning  the  world  that  its  ap- 
proach is  dangerom,  that  its  contact  is  death. 

The  wretch  without  it,  is  under  eternal  quarantine, — 
no  friend  to  greet,  no  home  to  harbor  him.  The  voyage 
of  his  life  becomes  a  joyless  peril ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
all  ambition  can  achieve,  or  avarice  amass,  or  rapacity 
plunder,  he  tosses  on  the  surge, — a  buoyant  pestilence. 
But,  let  me  not  degrade  into  selfishness  of  individual 
safety  or  individual  exposure  this  universal  principle  ; 
it  testifies  a  higher,  a  more  ennobling  origin. 

It  is  this  which,  consecrating  the  humble  circle  of  the 
hearth,  will  at  times  extend  itself  to  the  circumference 
of  the  horizon,  which  nerves  the  arm  of  the  patriot  to 
save  his  country ;  which  lights  the  lamp  of  the  philoso- 
pher to  amend  man  ;  which,  if  it  does  not  inspire,  will  yet 
invigorate  the  martyr  to  merit  immortality  ;  which  when 
one  world's  agony  is  passed,  and  the  glory  of  another  is 
dawning,  will  prompt  the  prophet,  even  in  his  chariot  of 
fire,  and  in  his  vision  of  heaven,  to  bequeath  to  mankind 
the  mantle  of  his  memory  ! 

0  divine,  O  delightful  legacy  of  a  spotless  reputation  ! 
Rich  is  the  inheritance  it  leaves ;  pious  the  example  it 
testifies ;  pure,  precious,  and  imperishable,  the  hope 
which  it  inspires  !  Can  there  be  conceived  a  more  atro- 
cious injury  than  to  filch  from  its  possessor  this  inesti- 
mable benefit,  to  rob  society  of  its  charm,  and  solitude 
of  its  solace  ;  not  oidy  to  outlaw  life,  but  to  attaint  death, 
converting  the  very  grave,  the  refuge  of  the  suflferer,  in- 
to the  gate  of  infamy  and  of  shame! 

1  can  conceive  few  crimes  beyond  it.  He  who  plun- 
ders my  property  takes  from  me  that  which  can  be  re- 
paired by  time  ;  but  what  period  can  repair  a  ruined 
reputation  ?  He  who  maims  my  person,  affects  that 
which  medicine  may  remedy;  but  what  herb  has  sover- 
eignty over  the  wounds  of  slander?  He  who  ridicules 
my  poverty,  or  reproaches  my  profession,  upbraids  me 
with  that  which  industry  may  retrieve,  and  integrity 
may  purify ;  but  what  riches  shall  redeem  a  bankrupt 


NUMBERFIVE.  81 

fame?  What  power  shall  blanch  the  sullied  snow  of 
cluu'acter?  There  can  be  no  injury  more  deadly.  There 
can  be  no  crime  more  cruel.  It  is  without  remedy.  It 
i^  without  antidote.     It  is  without  evasion. 

The  reptile,  calumny,  is  ever  on  the  watch.  From 
the  fascinaticni  of  its  eye  no  activity  can  escape  ;  from 
the  venom  of  its  fang  no  sanity  can  recover.  It  has  no 
enjoyjiient  but  crime  ;  it  has  no  prey  but  virtue  ;  it  has 
no  interval  from  the  restlessness  of  its  mjilice,  save  when 
bloated  with  its  victims,  it  grovels  to  disgorge  them  at  the 
withered  shrine  where  envy  idolizes  her  own  infirmities. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  JACOB  GRAY.-H.  Elliott  McBride. 

I  am  a  lonely  bachelor,  my  name  is  Jacob  Gray, 

I  sit  and  smoke  and  yawn,  and  fuss,  and  grumble  all  the  day ; 

My  life  has  been  a  checkered  one,  I've  had  great  knocks  and 

flumps ; 
I've  had  the  measles,  whooping-cough,  and  double-twisted 

mumps. 

At  first,  when  only  twentj^-one,  I  courted  Sally  Spry ; 
She  was  a  dashing  lovely  girl, — perfection  in  my  eye ; 
T  went  to  see  her  seven  times,  and  then  there  came  a  stop; 
She  calmly  took  her  leave  of  me,  and  whacked  me  off  kerflop. 

Says  she,  to  me,  "  Now,  Jacob  Gray,  I  think  you've  come 

enough  ; 
You're  rather  young,  a  little  green,  and  not  quite  up  to  snufF. 
So,  Jacob,  please,  don't  come  again — I've  got  another  beau  ; 
And  he's  a  chap  who  wears  a  watch,  and  makes  a  dashing 

sliovv." 

This  crushed  me  down  into  the  dust ;  I  felt  so  mighty  bad, 
I  thouglit  I'd  have  to  run  right  home  and  tell  it  all  to— dad. 
And  then  I  thought  I'd  wipe  my  eyes  before  I  went  away, 
And  try  to  show  tlie  darling  girl  the  error  of  her  way. 

Says  I,  "  O  Sal,  dear  Sally  Spry  !  oh,  would  you  treat  me  so  ? 

Oh,  would  you  cut  the  silken  tic  and  hid  me  /'o?V/i  go  ? 

Oh,  would  you  chuck  and  squash  me  down  into  the  mire  and 

mud, 
Andniptlic  youthful,  gushing  love  just  coming  to  the  bud?" 

4* 


82  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Ob,  Jake,"  sa}'^s  she,  "  don't  be  a  goose— don't  blubber  any 

more ; 
You'll  soon  get  well,  and  feel  as  good  as  ere  you  felt  before. 
And  ere  ten  weeks  have  gone  away,  you'll  think  no  more  of 

me; 
You'll  be  as  gay,  and  happy  too,  as  any  sport  can  be." 

I  sniffled  some,  put  on  my  hat,  and  straight  I  went  from 

Spry's ; 
Got  into  bed  and  sniffled  more,  and  wiped  my  weeping  eyes; 
Says  I,  "  I  guess  I  feel  used  up  and  sorter  middling  cheap ;  " 
And  tlien  I  turned  me  round  again  and— went  right  ofi"  to 

sleep. 

A  year  passed  round,  and  Sal  was  hitched  to  Joseph  John- 
ston Dobbs; 

And  I  had  fell  down  deep  in  love  with  Susan  Rachel  Blobbs. 

Now  Susan  had  a  farm  and  bonds,  and  piles  of  ready  cash, 

And  so  I  thought  I'd  court  her  quick,  and  take  her  with  a 
dash. 

Says  I,  "  Dear  Suze,  I  love  you  hard,— I  think  I  love  you 
more 

Than  all  the  girls  in  Squabbletown,  and  they  are  twenty- 
score. 

If  you  will  be  my  wife,  dear  Suze,  I'll  be  both  kind  and  true ; 

I'll  let  no  care  nor  trouble  come  within  ten  feet  of  you." 

Says  she,  a-twisting  up  her  nose,  and  winking  both  her  eyes, 
"  I  guess  you'd  better  spark  again  at  Simon  Joseph  Spry's." 
And  then  says  she,  "  I  heard  you  said  that  you'd  go  in  and 

win. 
And  marry  me  because  I  had  a  little  pile  of  'tin.' 

"  Oh,  Jacob,  no!  it  cannot  be,  for  now  I've  found  you  out; 
And  so,  in  future,  Jacob  Gray,  you  need  not  come  about." 
And  then  she  bowed  a  crushing  bow — I  grabbed  my  hat 

and  fled. 
Since  then  I've  never  sparked  a  spark — I  never  mean  to  wed. 


IT   IS  WELL   WE  CANxXOT   SEE  THE   END. 

When  another  life  is  added 

To  the  heaving,  turbid  mass  ; 
When  another  breath  of  being 

Stains  creation's  tarnished  glass ; 


NUMBER   FIVE.  °3 


When  the  first  cry,  weak  and  piteous, 

Heralds  long- enduring  pain. 
And  a  soul  from  non-existence 

Springs,  that  ne'er  can  die  again  ; 
When  the  mother's  passionate  welcome, 

Sorrow-like,  bursts  forth  in  tears, 
And  a  sire's  self-gratulation 

Prophesies  of  future  years,— 
It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  the  boy,  upon  the  threshold 

Of  his  all-comprising  home, 
Puts  aside  the  arm  maternal 

That  unlocks  him  ere  he  roam ; 
When  the  canvas  of  his  vessel 

Flutters  to  the  favoring  gale,— 
Years  of  solitary  exile 

Hid  behind  the  sunny  sail,— 
AVhen  his  pulses  beat  with  ardor, 

And  his  sinews  stretch  for  toil, 
And  a  hundred  bold  emprises^ 

Lure  him  to  that  eastern  soil, — 
It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  the  altar  of  religion 

Greets  the  expectant  bridal  pair, 
And  the  vow  that  lasts  till  dying 

Vibrates  on  the  sacred  air  ; 
When  man's  lavish  protestations 

Doubts  of  after  change  defy. 
Comforting  the  frailer  spirit 

Bound  his  servitor  for  aye  ; 
When  beneath  love's  silver  moonbeams, 

]\rany  rocks  in  shadow  sleep 
Undiscovered,  till  possession 

Shows  the  danger  of  the  deep,— 
It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

Whatsoever  is  beginning, 
That  is  wrought  by  human  skill; 

Every  daring  emanation 
Of  the  mind's  ambitious  will; 


84  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONa 

Every  first  impulse  of  passion, 

Gush  of  love  or  twinge  of  bate; 
Every  launch  upon  the  waters 

Wide-horizoned  by  our  fate  ; 
Every  venture  in  the  chances 

Of  life's  sad,  oft  desperate  game, 
Whatsoever  be  our  motive, 

Whatsoever  be  our  aim, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 


PERVERSION  OF  THE  BIBLE.— Robert  Pollok. 

Many  believed  ;  but  more  the  truth  of  God 
Turned  to  a  lie,  deceiving  and  deceived; 
Each,  with  the  accursed  sorcery  of  sin, 
To  his  own  wish  and  vile  propensity 
Transforming  still  the  meaning  of  the  text. 
Hear,  while  I  briefly  tell  what  mortals  proved, — 
By  effort  vast  of  ingenuity. 

Most  wondrous,  though  perverse  and  damnable, 
Proved  from  the  Bible,  which,  as  thou  hast  heard, 
So  plainly  spoke  that  all  could  understand. 

First,  and  not  least  in  number,  argued  some 
From  out  this  book  itself,  it  was  a  lie,  •    ^ 

A  fable  framed  by  crafty  men  to  cheat 
The  simple  herd,  and  make  them  bow  the  knee 
To  kings  and  priests.    These  in  their  wisdom  left 
The  light  i-evealed,  and  turned  to  fancies  wild ; 
Maintaining  loud,  that  ruined,  helpless  man 
Needed  no  Saviour.     Others  proved  that  men 
Might  live  and  die  in  sin,  and  yet  be  saved, 
For  so  it  was  decreed;  binding  the  will, 
By  God  left  free,  to  unconditional, 
Unreasonable  fate.     Others  believed 
That  he  who  was  most  criminal,  debased. 
Condemned  and  dead,  unaided  might  ascend 
The  heights  of  virtue  ;  to  a  i)erfect  law 
Giving  a  lame,  half-way  obedience,  which 
By  useless  effort  only  served  to  show 
The  impotence  of  him  who  vainly  strove 
With  finite  arm  to  measure  infinite ; 
Most  useless  effort !  when  to  justify 


NUMBER  FIVE.  -  85 

In  sight  of  God  it  meant,  as  proof  of  faith 

Most  acceptable,  and  worthy  of  all  praise. 

Another  held,  and  from  the  Bible  held, 

He  was  infallible— most  fallen  by  such 

Pretense— that  none  the  Scriptures,  open  to  all, 

And  most  to  humble-hearted,  ought  to  read. 

But  priests  ;  that  all  who  ventured  to  disclaim 

His  forged  authority  incurred  the  wrath 

Of  Heaven ;  and  he  who,  in  the  blood  of  such. 

Though  father,  mother,  daughter,  wife,  or  son. 

Imbrued  his  hands,  did  most  religious  work, 

Well  pleasing  to  the  heart  of  the  Most  High. 

Others,  in  outward  rite,  devotion  placed ; 

In  meats,  in  drinks ;  in  robe  of  certain  shape, 

In  bodily  abasements,  bended  knees ; 

Days,  numbers,  places,  vestments,  words,  and  names,— 

Absurdly  in  their  hearts  imagining, 

That  God,  like  men,  was  pleased  with  outward  show. 

Another,  stranger  and  more  wicked  still. 

With  dark  and  dolorous  labor,  ill  applied, 

With  many  a  gripe  of  conscience,  and  with  most 

Unhealthy  and  abortive  reasoning, 

That  brought  his  sanity  to  serious  doubt 

'Mong  wise  and  honest  men,  maintained  that  He, 

First  Wisdom,  Great  Messiah,  Prince  of  Peace, 

The  second  of  the  uncreated  Three, 

Was  nought  but  man, — of  earthy  origin  ; 

Thus  making  void  the  sacrifice  Divine, 

And  leaving  guilty  men,  God's  holy  law 

Still  unatoned,  to  work  them  endless  death. 

These  are  a  part ;  but  to  relate  thee  all, 

The  monstrous,  unbaptised  phantasies, 

Imaginations  fearfully  absurd. 

Hobgoblin  rites,  and  moon-struck  reveries, 

Distracted  creeds,  and  visionary  dreams, 

More  bodiless  and  hideously  misshapen 

Than  ever  fincy,  at  the  noon  of  niLdit, 

Playing  at  will,  framed  in  the  madman's  brain, 

That  from  this  book  of  simple  truth  were  proved— 

Were  proved  as  foolish  men  were  wont  to  prove— 

Would  bring  my  word  in  doubt,  and  thy  belief 

Stagger,  though  here  I  sit  and  sing,  within 

The  pale  of  truth,  where  falsehood  never  came. 

— The  Coune  of  T\.ne. 


86  ONE   HUNTEED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

THE  POWEK  OF  HABIT.— Jqhn  B.  Gough. 

I  remember  once  ridins;  fi-oru  Buffalo  to  Niagara  Falls. 
I  said  to  a  gentleman,  "  NVhat  river  is  that,  sir?" 

"  That,"  he  said,  "is  Niagara  river." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  beautiful  stream,"  said  I ;  "bright  and 
fair  and  glassy  ;  how  far  oif  are  the  rapids  ?  " 

"  Only  a  mile  or  two,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  only  a  mile  from  us  we  shall  find 
the  water  in  the  turbulence  which  it  must  show  near  to 
the  Falls?" 

"  You  will  find  it  so,  sir." 

And  so  I  found  it ;  and  the  first  sight  of  Niagara  I 
shall  never  forget.  Now,  launch  your  bark  on  that  Ni- 
agara river ;  it  is  bright,  smooth,  beautiful  and  glassy. 
There  is  a  ripple  at  the  bow ;  the  silver  wake  you  leave 
behind  adds  to  the  enjoyment.  Down  the  stream  you 
glide,  oars,  sails  and  helm  in  proper  trim,  and  you  set 
out  on  your  pleasure  excursion.  Suddenly  some  one  cries 
out  from  the  bank,  "  Young  men,  ahoy  !  " 

."What  is  it?" 

"  The  rapids  are  below  you." 

"  Ha !  ha !  we  have  heard  of  the  rapids,  but  we  are 
not  such  fools  as  to  get  there.  If  we  go  too  fast,  then 
we  shall  up  with  the  helm  and  steer  to  the  shore;  we 
will  set  the  mast  in  the  socket,  hoist  the  sail,  and  speed 
to  the  land.  Then  on,  boys  ;  don't  be  alarmed — there 
is  no  danger." 

"  Young  men,  ahoy  there !  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  rapids  are  below  you !  " 

"Ha !  ha !  wq  will  laugh  and  quaff;  all  things  delight 
us.  What  care  we  for  the  future  !  No  man  ever  saw  it. 
Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  We  will  enjoy 
life  while  we  may  ;  will  catch  pleasure  as  it  flies.  This 
is  enjoyment ;  time  enough  to  steer  out  of  danger  when 
we  are  sailing  swiftly  with  the  current." 

"  Young  men,  ahoy  !  " 

"What  is  it?" 


N  U  M  C-E  E    F I  V  E.  87 

"  Beware  !  Beware !  The  rapids  are  below  you  !  " 
Now  you  see  the  water  foaming  all  around.  See  how 
fast  you  pass  that  point!  Up  with  the  helm!  Now 
turn!  Pull  hard!  quick,  quick,  quick !  pull  for  your 
lives !  pull  till  the  blood  starts  from  the  nostrils,  and  the 
veins  stand  like  whip-cords  upon  your  brow!  Set  the 
mast  in  the  socket !  hoist  the  sail  I — ah  !  it  is  too  late  ! 
Shrieking,  cursing,  howling,  blaspheming,  over  they  go. 
Thousands  go  over  the  rapids  every  year,  through  the 
power  of  habit,  crying  all  the  while,  "  When  I  find  out 
that  it  is  injuring  me  I  will  give  it  up  !  " 


GAPE-SEED.— George  W.  Bungay. 

A  Yankee,  walking  the  streets  of  London,  looked 
through  a  window  upon  a  group  of  men  writing  very 
rapidly ;  and  one  of  them  said  to  him  in  an  insulting 
manner,  "  Do  you  wish  to  buy  some  gape-seed  ?  "  Pass- 
ing on  a  short  distance  the  Yankee  met  a  man,  and  asked 
him  what  the  business  of  those  men  was  in  the  office  he 
had  just  passed.  He  was  told  that  they  wrote  letters 
dictated  by  others,  and  transcribed  all  sorts  of  documents; 
in  short,  they  were  writers.  The  Yankee  returned  to 
the  office,  and  inquired  if  one  of  the  men  would  write  a 
letter  for  him,  and  was  answered  in  the  affirmative.  He 
asked  the  price,  and  was  told  one  dollai'.  After  consid- 
erable talk,  the  bargain  was  made  ;  one  of  the  conditions 
of  which  was  that  the  scribe  should  write  just  what  the 
Yankee  told  him  to,  or  he  should  receive  no  pay.  The 
scribe  told  the  Yankee  he  was  ready  to  begin  ;  and  the 
latter  said, — 

"  Dear  marm :"  and  then  asked,  "  Have  you  got  that 
deown  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "go  on." 

"  I  went  to  ride  t'other  day  :  have  you  got  that  deown?" 

"  Yes  ;  go  on,  go  on." 

"And  I  harnessed  up  the  old  mare  into  the  wagon: 
have  you  got  that  deown  ?  " 

KK 


88  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Yes,  yes,  long  ago ;  go  on." 

"  Why,  how  fast  you  write !  And  I  got  into  the  wagon, 
and  sat  deown,  and  drew  up  the  reins,  and  took  the  whip 
in  my  right  hand  :  have  you  got  that  deown  '( " 

"  Yes,  long  ago  ;  go  on." 

"  Dear  me,  how  fast  you  write !  I  never  saw  your 
equal.  And  I  said  to  the  old  mare,  'Go  long,'  and  jerked 
the  reins  pretty  hard :  have  you  got  tliat  deown  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  am  impatiently  v,'aiting  for  more.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  butlier  me  with  so  many  foolish  questions. 
Go  on  with  your  letter." 

"  Well,  tlie  old  mare  wouldn't  stir  out  of  her  tracks, 
and  I  hollered,  'Go  'long,  you  old  jade !  go  'long.'  Have 
you  2;ot  that  deown?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  pestersome  fellow ;  go  on." 

"And  I  licked  her,  and  licked  her,  and  licked  her — 
(continuing  to  repeat  these  words  as  rapidly  as  possible.)" 

"  Hold  on  there !  I  have  written  two  pages  of  'licked 
her,'  and  I  want  the  rest  of  the  letter." 

"  Well,  and  she  kicked,  and  she  kicked,  and  she  kick- 
ed— (continuing  to  repeat  these  words.)" 

"  Do  go  on  with  your  letter ;  I  have  several  pages  of 
'she  kicked.'  " 

( The  Yankee  clacks  as  in  urging  horses  to  move,  and 
continues  the  clucking  noise  rapidly  for  some  time.) 

The  scribe  tlirows  down  his  pen. 

"  Write  it  deown  !  write  it  deown  !  " 

"  I  can't ! " 

"  Well  then,  I  wont  pay  you." 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  all  these  sheets  upon  which  I 
have  written  your  nonsense  ? " 

"  Use  them  in  doing  up  your  gape-seed.   Good  by ! " 


THE  BLACKSMITH'S  STORY.— Frank  Olive. 

% 
Well, no!  Mywife  aintdead,sir,butI'velost  her  allthesamc; 
She  left  me  voluntarily,  and  neither  was  to  blame. 
It's  rather  a  queer  story,  and  I  think  you  will  agree- 
When  you  hear  the  circumstances— 'twas  rather  rough  on  me. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  89 

She  was  a  soldier's  widow ;  he  was  killed  at  Malvern  Hill ; 
And  when  I  married  her  she  seemed  to  sorrow  for  him  still ; 
But  I  brought  her  here  to  Kansas,  and  I  never  want  to  see 
A  better  wife  than  Mary  was  for  live  bright  years  to  me. 

The  change  of  scene  brought  cheerfulness,  and  soon  a  rosy 

glow 
Of  happiness  warmed  Mary's  cheeks  and  melted  all  their 

snow. 
I  think  she  loved  me  some— I'm  bound  to  think  that  of  her, 

sir — 
And  as  for  me,  I  can't  begin  to  tell  how  I  loved  her  ! 

Three  years  ago  the  baby  came  our  humble  home  to  bless ; 

And  then  I  reckon  I  was  nigh  to  perfect  happiness ; 

'Tvvas  hers — 'twas  mine— but  I've  no  language  to  explain 

to  you, 
How  that  little  girl's  weak  fingers  our  hearts  together  drew  I 

Once  we  watched  it  through  a  fever,  and  with  each  gasping 

breath, 
Dumb  with  an  awful,  wordless  woe,  we  waited  for  its  death  ; 
And,  though  I'm  not  a  pious  man,  our  souls  together  there, 
For  Heaven  to  spare  our  darling,  went  up  in  voiceless  prayer. 

And  when  the  doctor  said  'twould  live,  our  joy  what  words 

could  tell  ? 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  our  grateful  tears  together  fell. 
Sometimes,  you  see,  the  shadow  fell  across  our  little  nest,  ' 
But  it  only  made  the  sunshine  seem  a  doubly  welcome  guest. 

Work  came  to  me  a  plenty,  and  I  kept  the  anvil  ringing ; 
Early  and  late  you'd  find  me  there  a  hammering  and  singing; 
Love  nerved  my  arm  to  labor,  and  moved  my  tongue  to  song, 
And  though  my  singing  wasn't  sweet,  it  was  tremendous 
stiong ! 

One  day  a  one-armed  stranger  stopped  to  have  me  nail  a 

shoe. 
And  while  I  was  at  work,  we  passed  a  compliment  or  two; 
I  asked  him  how  he  lost  liis  arm.     He  said  'twas  shot  away 
At  Malvern  Hill.   "At  Malvern  Hill?  Did  you  know  Robert 

May  ?  " 

"  That's  me,"  said  he.    "  You,  you !  "  I  gasped,  choking  with 

horrid  doubt; 
"  If  you're  the  man,  just  follow  me;    we'll  try  this  mystery 

out!" 
With  dizzy  steps,  I  led  liiin  in  to  Mary.     God !  'Twas  true  ! 
Then  the  bitterest  pangs  of  misery,  unspeakable,  I  knew. 


90  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Frozen  with  deadly  horroFj  she  stared  with  eyes  of  stone, 

And  from  her  quivering  lips  there  broke  one  wild,  despair- 
ing moan. 

'Twas  he  !  the  husband  of  her  youth,  now  risen  from  the 
dead, 

But  all  too  late— with  bitter  cry,  her  senses  sudden  fled. 

What  could  be  done?   He  was  reported  dead.   On  his  return 
He  strove  in  vain  some  tidings  of  his  absent  wife  to  learn. 
'Twas  well  that  he  was  innocent!    Else  I'd  've  killed  him, 

too 
So  dead  h^  never  would  have  riz  till  Gabriel's  trumpet  blew ! 

It  was  agreed  that  Mary  then  between  us  should  decide, 
And  each  by  hei'  decision  would  sacredly  abide. 
No  sinner,  at  the  ju<lgment-seat,  waiting  eternal  doom. 
Could  sufler  what  I  did,  while  waiting  sentence  in  that  i  oom. 

Rigid  and  breathless,  there  we  stood,  with  nerves  as  tense 

as  steel, 
While  Mary's  eyes  sought  each  white  face,  in  piteous  apjieal. 
God !  could  not  woman's  duty  be  less  hardly  reconciled 
Between  her  lawful  husband  and  the  lather  of  her  child? 

Ah,  how  my  heart  was  chilled  to  ice,  when  she  knelt  down 

and  said  : 
"Forgive  me,  John!    He  is  mv  husband!   Here,  alive  — not 

dead !  " 
I'raised  her  tenderly,  and  tried  to  tell  her  she  was  right. 
But  somehow,  in  my  aching  breast,  the  prisoned  words  stuck 

tight ! 

"  But,  John,  I  can't  leave  baby—"  "What !  wife  and  child  !  " 

cried  I ; 
"  Must  I  yield  all !  Ah,  cruel  fate !   Better  that  I  should  die. 
Think  of  the  long,  sad,  lonely  hours,  waiting  in  gloom,  for 

me, — 
No  wife  to  cheer  me  with  her  love,  no  babe  to  climb  my 

knee ! 

"And  yet — you  are  her  mother,  and  the  sacred  mother  love 
Is  still  the  purest,  tenderest  tie  that  heaven  ever  wove. 
Take  her,  but  promise,  Mary,— for  that  will  bring  no  shame,-— 
My  little  girl  shall  bear,  and  learn  to  lisp  her  father's  name!" 

It  may  be,  in  the  life  to  come,  I'll  meet  my  child  and  wife ; 
But  yonder,  by  my  cottage  gate,  we  parted  for  this  life  ; 
One  long  hand-clasp  from  Mary,  and  my  dream  of  love  was 

done! 
One  long  embrace  from  baby,  and  my  happiness  was  gone  I 


NUMBER   FIVE.  91 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  DYING.— Captain  Bowling. 

A  number  of  British  officers  were  stationed  at  an  outpost  in  Iniiia  during  the 
prevalence  of  a  pestilence.  Many  of  their  companions  had  fallen  victims;  all 
chance  of  esc;ipe  was  cut  oft',  and  death  sUired  them  in  the  face.  Under  Ihi-se 
circumstances,  aud  meeting  together  probably  for  the  last  time,  the  following 
lines,  which  were  written  by  one  of  their  number,  were  sung.  The  author  was 
the  first  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  grim  destroyer. 

We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 
And  the  walls  around  are  bare  ; 
As  they  echo  the  peals  of  laughter 
It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there  ; 

But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

We  drink  to  our  comrades'  eyes; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 
■    Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet ; 
'Tis  cold,  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 
And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 

But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise ; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 
Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink  ; 
We'll  fall,  midst  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 
As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 

So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'Tis  in  this  our  respite  lies ; 

One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Time  was  when  we  frowned  at  others. 
We  thought  we  were  wiser  then  ; 
Ha !  ha !  let  those  think  of  their  mothers, 
Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 

No  !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

The  thoughtless  are  here  the  wise; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already— 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There's  many  a  hand  that's  shaking. 
There's  many  a  cheek  that's  sunk  ; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  l^rcaking, 
They'll  burn  with  the  wine  we've  drunk. 


92  ON£    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONa 

So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 
'Tis  here  the  revival  lies  ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

There's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 
'Tis  the  hurricane's  fiery  breath  ; 
And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 
Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  death. 

Ho !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ; 

For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies ; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  1 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning? 
Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 
Of  the  soul  shall  sting  no  more  ? 

Ho !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ; 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies ; 

A  cup  for  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Betrayed  by  the  land  we  find, 
Where  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 
And  the  dullest  remain  behind — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses  steady  1 
'Tis  all  we  have  left  to  prize ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  1 


AFFECTATION  IN  THE  PULPIT— William  Cowpkr. 

In  man  or  woman, — but  far  most  in  man. 

And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 

And  serves  the  altar, — in  my  soul  I  loathe 

All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn ; 

Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 

What !  Mnll  a  man  play  tricks, — will  he  indulge 

A  silly,  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form. 

And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 

And  pretty  face, — in  presence  of  his  God  ? 

Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes. 


N  U  M  B  E  R   F  I  V  E.  93 

As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  haud, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 
When  I  am  hungry  fur  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock! 
Therefore,  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare, 
And  start  theatric,  practised  at  the  glass! 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learned  with  labor,  and  though  much  admired 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-informed, 
To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men. 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  pressed  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 
Some,  decent  in  demeanor  while  they  i^reach, 
That  task  performed,  relapse  into  themselves; 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye, 
Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not! 
I  venerate  the  man  whose  heart  is  warm, 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause  ; 
To  such,  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain, 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse; 
Fre(}aent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side. 
Ambling,  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card; 
Constant  at  routs,  familiar  with  a  round 
Of  ladyshij)s ;  a  stranger  to  the  poor ; 
Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold  ; 
And  well  pre])ared,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 
}iy  infidelity  and  love  of  world. 
To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure  ;  a  slave 
To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride, — 
From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  licads, 
Preserve  the  church  !  and  lay  not  caieless  hands 
On  skulls  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn! 


94  ONE    UUNDBED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

COUSIN  SALLY  BILLIARD.— H.  C.  Jones. 

Scene. — A  Court  of  Justice  in  North  Carolina. 

A  beardless  disciple  of  Themis  rises,  and  thus  addres- 
ses the  Court :  "  May  it  please  your  worships,  and  you, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  since  it  has  been  my  fortune 
(good  or  bad,  I  will  not  say,)  to  exercise  myself  in  legal 
disquisitions,  it  has  never  befallen  me  to  be  obliged  to 
prosecute  so  direful,  marked,  and  malicious  an  assault ; 
a  more  wilful,  violent,  dangerous  battery  ; — and  finally, 
a  more  diabolical  breach  of  the  peace  has  seldom  hap- 
pened in  a  civilized  country  ;  and  I  dare  say  it  has  sel- 
dom been  your  duty  to  pass  upon  one  so  shocking  to  be- 
nevolent feelings,  as  this  which  took  place  over  at  Cap- 
tain Rice's.     But  you  will  hear  from  the  witnesses." 

The  witnesses  being  sworn,  two  or  three  were  exam- 
ined and  deposed  :  one  said  that  he  heard  the  noise,  and 
did  not  see  the  fight ;  another  that  he  saw  the  row,  but 
didn't  know  who  struck  first ;  and  a  third,  that  he  was 
very  drunk,  and  couldn't  say  much  about  the  scrimmage. 

Lawyer  Chojis.  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  to  have  occu- 
pied your  time  with  the  stupidity  of  the  witnesses  exam- 
ined. It  arises,  gentlemen,  altogether  from  misappre- 
hension on  my  part.  Had  I  known,  as  I  now  do,  that 
I  had  a  witness  in  attendance  who  was  well  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  ease,  and  who  was  ablo 
to  make  himself  clearly  understood  by  the  court  and  the 
jury,  I  should  not  so  long  have  trespassed  upon  your 
time  and  patience.  Come  forward,  Mr.  Harris,  and  be 
sworn. 

So  forward  comes  the  witness,  a  fat,  shuffy  old  man, 
a  "leetle"  corned,  and  took  his  oath  with  an  air. 

Chops.  Harris,  we  wish  you  to  tell  about  the  riot  that 
happened  the  other  day  at  Captain  Rice's  ;  and  as  a  good 
deal  of  time  has  already  been  wasted  in  circumlocution, 
we  wish  you  to  be  compendious,  and  at  the  same  time  aa 
explicit  as  possible. 


N  U  AI  B  E  R    F  I  V  E.  95 

Harris.  Adzackly  (giving  the  lawyer  a  knowing  wink, 
and  at  the  same  time  clearing  his  throat).  Captaiu  Kice, 
he  giu  a  treat,  and  cousin  JSally  DiiiiarJ  she  came  over 
to  our  house  and  axed  me  if  my  wife  she  moutu't  go.  1 
told  cousin  Sally  Dilliard  tliat  my  wife  was  poorly,  being 
as  how  she  had  a  touch  of  riieuinatics  in  the  hip,  and 
tlie  big  swamp  was  in  the  road,  and  the  big  swamp  was 
up,  for  tliere  had  been  a  heap  of  rain  lately;  but,  how- 
somever,  as  it  was  her,  cousin  Sally  Dilliard,  my  wife  she 
n)()ut  go.  Well,  cousin  Sally  Dilliard  then  axed  me  if 
Mose  he  moutn'tgo.  1  told  cousin  Sally  Dilliard  that  he 
Avas  the  foreman  of  the  crap,  and  the  crap  was  smartly  in 
the  grass,  but,  howsomever,  as  it  was  her,  cousin  Sally 
Dilliard,  Mose  he  mout  go 

Chops.  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  Mr.  Harris, 
■what  do  you  mean  by  this  rigmarole? 

Witness.  Captain  Rice  he  gin  a  treat,  and  cousin 
Sally  Dilliard  slie  came  over  to  our  house  and  axed  ine 
if  my  wife  she  moutn't  go.  I  told  cousin  Sally  Dilliard 

Chops.  Stop,  sir,  if  you  please  ;  we  don't  want  to  hear 
anything  about  your  cousin  Sally  Dill'ard  and  your 
wife — tell  us  about  the  fight  at  Rice's. 

Witness.     Well,  I  will  sir,  if  you  will  let  me. 

Chops.     Well,  sir,  go  on. 

Witness.  Well,  sir,  Captain  Rice  he  gin  a  treat,  and 
cousin  Sally  Dilliard  she  came  over  to  our  house  and 
axed  me  if  my  wife  she  moutu't  go 

Chops.     There  it  is  again.     Witness,  please  to  stop. 

Witness.     Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want? 

Chops.  We  want  to  know  about  the  fight,  and  you 
must  not  prococd  in  this  impertinent  story.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  the  matter  before  the  Court? 

WHur.^'i.     To  be  sure  I  do. 

Chops.     Well  goon  and  tell  it,  and  nothing  else. 

Witness.     Well,  Captain  Rice  ho  gin  a  treat 

Chops.  This  is  intohsrable.  May  it  please  the  Court ; 
I  move  that  this  witness  be  committed  for  contempt; 
he  seems  to  be  trifling  with  this  Court. 

Eli* 


96  ONE     nUNDKKD     CHOICE    SELECTI0N3 

Court  Witness,  you  are  now  before  a  court  of"  justice, 
and  unless  you  behave  yourself  in  a  more  becoming  man- 
ner, you  will  be  sent  to  jail ;  so  begin,  and  tell  what  you 
know  about  the  fight  at  Captain  Kice's. 

Witness  {alarmed).  Weil,  genilemen,  Captain  Rice 
he  gin  a  treat,  and  cousin  Sally  Dilliard 

Chops.  I  hope  the  witness  may  be  ordered  into  cus- 
tody. 

Court.  Mr.  Attorney,  the  Court  is  of  the  opinion  that 
we  may  save  time  by  letting  the  witness  gf)  on  in  his  own 
way.     Proceed,  Mr.  Harris,  but  stick  to  the  point. 

Witness.  Yes,  gentlemen.  Well,  Captain  Rice  he  gin 
a  treat,  and  Cousin  Sally  Dilliard  she  came  over  to  our 
house  and  axed  me  if  my  wife  she  moutn't  go.  I  told 
cousin  Sally  Dilliard  that  my  wife  she  was  poorly,  being 
as  how  she  had  the  rheumatics  in  the  hips,  and  the  big 
swamp  was  up  ;  but,  howsomever,  as  it  was  her,  cousin 
Sally  Dilliard,  my  wife  she  mout  go.  Well,  cousin  Sally 
Dilliard  then  axed  if  Mosehe  moutn't  go.  I  told  cousin 
Sally  Dilliard  as  how  Mose  he  was  the  foreman  of  the 
crap,  and  the  crap  was  smartly  in  the  grass, — but,  how- 
somever, as  it  was  her,  cousin  Sally  Dilliard,  Mose  he 
mout  go.  So  they  goes  on  together,  Mose,  my  wife,  and 
cousin  Sally  Dilliard,  and  they  come  to  the  big  swamp, 
and  it  was  up,  as  I  was  telling  you  ;  but  being  as  how 
there  was  a  log  across  the  big  swamp,  cousin  Sally  Dil- 
liard and  Mose,  like  genteel  folks,  they  walked  the  log; 
but  my  wife,  like  a  blamed  fool,  waded  through. 

Chops.     Heaven  and  earth,  this  is  too  bad  ;  but  go  on. 

Witness.      Well,  that's  all  I  know  about  the  fight. 


NEW  THANATOPSIS.— Wm.  H.  Holcombe. 

Beneath  the  jiloi'y  of  a  brighter  sun 

Than  that  which  keeps  this  movino:  globe  of  dust 

True  to  its  orbit,  and  with  vision  fed 

By  s}>iritnal  light  and  wisdom  sent  from  God, 

I  sought  for  death  throughout  the  universe — 


N  U  M  B  K  R    F  I  V  li.  97 

If  haply  I  might  note  the  dreaded  being 
Who  easts  sucli  awful  shadows  on  our  hearts, 
And  seems  to  break,  with  his  discordant  step, 
The  harmonies  of  nature.     But  in  vain 
I  scanned  the  range  of  substance  intinite 
From  God  to  angels,  and  tiirough  men  to  earth, 
To  beast,  bird,  serpent  and  the  ocean  tribes, 
To  worms  and  flowers,  and  the  atomic  forms 
Of  crystaline  creations.     Change  had  been, 
Perpetual  evolution  and  fresh  life. 
And  metamorphoses  to  higher  states  — 
An  orderly  progress,  like  the  building  up 
Of  pyramids  from  earth's  material  base 
Into  the  fields  of  sunlight — but  no  death. 

With  deep  solemnity  akin  to  fear, 

1  pondered  o'er  the  elemental  world. 

That  seeming  chaos,  but  its  bosons  held 

No  embryonic  forms  but  those  of  life  ; 

Nor  did  the  spiritual  origin  of  things 

Elude  my  recognition  in  the  maze 

Of  chemic  transformations.     Then  I  read 

The  geologic  leaves  of  stone  sublime, 

Immortal  book  in  an  immortal  tongue, 

Full  of  mysterious  life.     And  then  I  looked 

Into  the  dark  mausoleums  of  the  past. 

And  up  tiie  swift  and  shadowy  stream  of  time, 

Upon  whose  banks  nations  and  men  are  said 

To  have  perished.     And  I  turned  the  teeming  soil 

Of  all  the  battle-fields  of  every  age. 

Peered  into  charnels,  tracked  the  desolate  paths 

Of  plague  and  famine,  and  surveyed  with  awe 

The  secrets  of  the  sea — but  found  no  death. 

To  spirits,  the  veil  of  whose  material  temple 

Is  rent  in  twain,  and  who  are  capable 

Of  purer  thought  and  more  interior  life. 

His  name  and  nature  are  alike  unknown, 

Throu'.fhoiit  the  choral  harmony  of  things, 

Ami  all  the  vast  economy  of  God, 

He  has  no  place  or  power. 

There  is  no  death  ! 
God,  God  alone,  is  life  ;  and  all  our  life, 
Ami  all  the  varying  substance  of  tlie  world, 
From  Him  derived,  and  vitalized  by  Him  ; 


98  ONE  HUNDBBD  CHOICE  SBLKCTIONS 

And  every  change  which  we  ascribe  to  death 

Is  but  a  change  in  form  or  place  or  state, 

Of  something  which  can  never  cease  to  Uve. 

Insensate  matter  is  the  base  of  all, 

The  pedestal  of  life,  the  supple  mould 

Through  which  the  vital  currents  come  and  go. 

The  universe,  with  its  infinity. 

Is  but  the  visible  garment  of  our  God ; 

The  sun  is  but  the  garment  of  our  heavens  j 

The  body  is  the  garment  of  our  soul, 

The  coarse  material  out-birth  of  its  life, 

Its  medium  for  a  time,  a  shell  which  keeps 

Within  its  curves  the  music  of  the  sea,— 

A  wondrous  thing !  which  seems  to  live,  but  does  not, 

For  nothing  lives  but  God,  and  all  in  Him. 

The  spirit  is  a  substance,  a  pure  form 

Of  immaterial  tissue,  finely  wrought  _ 

Into  the  human  shape,  unseen  in  this 

Our  physical  existence,  but  the  cause 

Of  all  its  motions  and  its  very  life. 

When  ripened  for  a  more  exalted  sphere, 

The  soul  exuves  its  earthly  envelope. 

And  leaves  the  atoms  of  its  chemic  dross 

(Oh,  never,  never  more  to  be  resumed  I) 

For 'worms  or  weeds  or  flowers  to  animate, 

While  it  withdraws  to  more  august  abodes. 

Happier  beyond  comparison,  than  those 

Who  pass  in  joy  from  hovels  all  forlorn 

To  palaces  imperial. 

None  have  died 
From  earth's  first  revolution  to  the  present. 
But  all  are  living  who  have  ever  lived. 
Earth  has  indeed  no  monuments  of  death. 
But  only  vestiges  of  those  who  passed 
Throu-^h  this  inevitable  vale  of  shadows, 
And  left  behind  the  prints  of  busy  hands. 
That  are  still  busier  now,  and  songful  echoes 
Of  friendly  voices  that  are  singing  still. 

In  <-loom  and  darkness  was  the  poet  lost 

Who  calls  this  earth  the  mighty  tomb  of  man: 

'Tis  but  his  temporary  habitation. 

His  cradle  and  his  school  of  discipline,—  _ 

The  dark  cold  ground  in  which  the  seed  is  sown 


NUMBEB    FIVE.  99 

That,  struggling  upward,  slowlj'  germinates 
Until  it  bursts  into  the  shining  air. 

Not  Christ  alone  has  risen,  but  all  have  risen; 
The  stone  is  rolled  from  every  sepulchre ; 
The  grave  has  nothing  it  can  render  back. 
AVhen  we  ascend  to  our  eternal  homes, 
AVe  leave  no  living  fragment  of  ourselves. 
We  do  not  pass  from  nature  to  the  grave ; 
But  nature  is  our  grave,  from  which  we  rise 
At  seeming  death— our  real  resurrection^ 
Into  the  world  of  spirits.     And  the  tomb, 
AVith  all  its  grief,  and  tenderness,  and  shadow, 
Is  the  creation  of  our  sluggish  minds, 
By  kindly  memories  and  sweet  suggestions, 
To  cherish  and  prolong  the  love  of  friends 
Gone,  but  not  lost ;  unseen,  but  nearer  still, 
In  beauty  and  in  glory,  to  our  life, 
Which  lives  in  God,  immortal  as  himself.. 


THERE   IS  NO    DEATH.— Lord  Lyiton. 

There  is  no  death !     The  stars  go  down 

To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore ; 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown 

They  shine  forevermore. 

There  is  no  death  !     The  dust  we  tread 
Siiall  change  beneath  the  summer  showers 

To  golden  grain  or  mellowed  fruit, 
Or  rainbovv-tinted  flowers. 

The  granite  rocks  disorganize. 

And  feed  the  hungry  moss  they  bear; 

The  forest  leaves  drink  daily  life, 
From  out  the  viewless  air. 

There  is  no  death  !    The  leaves  may  fall, 
And  flowers  may  fade  and  jiass  away; 

They  only  wait  throngli  wintry  hours, 
The  coming  of  the  May. 

There  is  no  death  !     An  angel  form 
Walks  o'er  the  earth  with  silent  tread  ; 

He  bears  our  best  loved  things  away  ; 
And  then  we  called  them  "dead." 


100  ONE    HUNDRED    CHO  I  C  K   S  K  I,  ECT  I  O  NS 

lie  leaves  our  hearts  all  desolate, 

He  plucks  our  fairest,  sweetest  flowers; 

Transplanted  into  bliss,  they  now 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  bird-like  voice,  whose  joyous  tones, 
Made  glad  these  scenes  ot  sin  and  strife, 

Siti'^s  now  an  everlasting  song, 
Around  the  tree  of  life. 

Where'er  he  sees  a  smile  too  bright. 
Or  heart  too  pure  for  taint  and  vice, 

He  bears  it  to  that  world  of  light, 
To  dwell  in  paradise. 

Born  unto  that  undying  life, 
They  leave  us  but  to  come  again  ; 

With  joy  we  welcome  them  the  same, 
Except  their  sin  and  pain. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 
The  dear  immortal  sjiirits  tread; 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life — there  are  no  dead. 


THE  INDIANS.— Joseph  Story. 

There  is,  in  the  fate  of  these  unf  >rtunate  beings,  much 
to  awaken  our  sympathy,  and  much  to  disturb  the  sobri- 
ety of  our  judgment ;  much  which  may  be  urged  to  ex- 
cuse their  own  atrocities ;  much  in  their  characters 
which  betrays  us  into  an  involuntary  admiration.  AVhat 
can  be  more  melancholy  than  their  history  ?  By  a  hiw 
of  their  nature,  they  seem  destined  to  a  slow,  but  sure 
extinction.  Everywhere,  at  the  approach  of  the  white 
man,  they  fade  away.  We  hear  the  rustling  of  their 
footsteps,  like  that  of  the  withered  leaves  of  autumn,  and 
they  are  gone  forever.  They  pass  mournfully  by  us,  and 
they  return  no  moi'e.  Two  centuries  ago,  the  smoke  of 
their  wigwams  and  the  fires  of  their  councils  rose  in 
every  valley,  from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  farthest  Florida, 
from  the  ocean  to  the  Mississippi  and  the  lakes.     The 


NUMBEK  FIVE.  101 

shouts  of  victory  and  the  war-dance  rang  through  the 
mountains  and  the  glades.  The  thick  arrows  and  the 
deadly  tomahawk  whistled  through  the  forests ;  and  the 
hunter's  trace  and  dark  encampment  startled  the  wild 
beasts  in  their  lairs.  The  warriors  stood  forth  in  their 
glory.  The  young  listened  to  the  songs  of  other  days. 
The  mothers  played  with  their  infants,  and  gazed  on  the 
scene  with  warm  hopes  of  the  future.  The  aged  sat  down ; 
but  they  wept  not.  They  should  soon  be  at  rest  in 
fairer  regions,  where  the  Gi'eat  Spirit  dwelt,  in  a  home 
prepared  for  the  brave,  beyond  the  western  skies.  Brav- 
er men  never  lived ;  truer  men  never  drew  the  bow. 
Tliey  had  courage  and  fortitude,  and  sagacity,  and  per- 
severance, beyond  most  of  the  human  race.  They  shrank 
from  no  dangei-s,  and  they  feared  no  hardships.  If  they 
had  the  vices  of  savage  life,  they  had  the  virtues  also. 
They  were  true  to  their  country,  their  friends,  and  their 
homes.  If  they  forgave  not  injury,  neither  did  they  fur- 
get  kindness.  If  their  vengeance  was  terrible,  their  fi- 
delity and  generosity  were  unconquerable  also.  Their 
love,  like  their  hate,  stopped  not  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 
But  where  are  they '?  Where  are  the  villagers,  and 
warriors,  and  youths  ;  the  sachems  and  the  tribes  ;  the 
hunters  and  their  families  ?  They  have  perished.  They 
are  consumed.  The  wasting  pestilence  has  not  alone 
done  the  mighty  work.  No, — nor  famine,  nor  war.  There 
has  been  a  mightier  power,  a  moral  canker,  which  has 
eaten  into  their  heart-cores  ;  a  plague,  which  the  touch 
of  the  white  man  communicated ;  a  poison,  which  be- 
trayed them  into  a  lingering  ruin.  The  winds  of  the 
Atlantic  fan  not  a  single  region,  which  they  may  now 
call  their  own.  Already  the  last  feeble  remnants  of  the 
race  are  preparing  for  their  journey  beyond  the  Missis- 
sippi. I  see  them  leave  their  miserable  homes,  the  aged, 
the  helpless,  the  women,  and  the  warriors,  "few  and  faint, 
yet  fearless  still."  The  ashes  are  cold  on  their  native 
hearths.  The  smoke  no  longer  curls  round  their  lowly 
cabins.     They  move  on  with  a  slow,  unsteady  step.   The 


102  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

white  man  is  upon  their  heels,  for  terror  or  despatch, 
but  they  heed  him  not.  They  turn  to  take  a  Uist  look 
at  their  deserted  villages.  They  cast  a  last  glance  upon 
the  graves  of  their  fathei's.  They  shed  no  tears ;  they 
utter  no  cries  ;  they  heave  no  groans.  There  is  some- 
thing in  their  hearts  which  passes  speech.  There  is  some- 
thing in  their  looks,  not  of  vengeance  or  submission,  but 
of  hard  necessity,  which  stifles  both  ;  which  chokes  all 
utterance  ;  which  has  no  aim  nor  method.  It  is  courage 
absorbed  in  despair.  They  linger  but  for  a  moment. 
Their  look  is  onward.  They  have  passed  the  fatal  stream. 
It  shall  never  be  repassed  by  them, — no,  never.  Yet 
there  lies  not  between  us  and  them  an  impassable  gulf. 
They  know  and  feel  that  there  is  for  them  still  one  re- 
move further,  not  distant,  nor  unseen.  It  is  to  the  gen- 
eral burial-ground  of  their  race. 

Reas;)n  as  we  may,  it  is  impossible  not  to  read  in  such 
a  fate  much  that  we  know  not  how  to  interpret ;  much 
of  provocation  to  cruel  deeds  and  deep  resentments; 
much  of  apology  for  wrong  and  perfidy  ;  much  of  pity 
mingling  with  indignation ;  much  of  doubt  :ind  misgiv- 
ing as  to  the  past;  much  of  painful  recollections;  much 
of  dark  forebodings. 


THE  NANTUCKET  SKIPPER.— Jamks  T.  Fields. 

Many  a  long,  long  year  aeo, 

Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 
Of  finding  out,  though  "lying  low," 

How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 

They  greased  the  lead  before  it  fell, 

And  then  by  sounding,  through  the  night, 

Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck  so  well. 
They  always  guessed  their  reckoning  right. 

A  skipper  gray,  whose  eyes  were  dim, 
Could  tell  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 

And  so  below  he'd  "douse  the  glim,"— 
After  of  course,  his  "something  hot." 


NUMBER   FIVE. 

Snug  in  his  berth,  at  eight  o'clock, 
Tills  ancient  sliipper  might  be  found ; 

No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rock, 
He  slept, — for  skippers'  naps  are  sound. 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and  then 
Run  down  and  wake  him,  witli  the  lead; 

He'd  up,  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night  'twas  Jotham  Marden's  watch, 
A  curious  wag,— the  peddler's  son  ; 

And  so  he  mused,  (the  wanton  wretch !) 
*'  To-night  I'll  have  a  grain  of  fun. 

"  We're  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools, 
To  think  the  skipper  knows,  by  tasting. 

What  ground  he's  on  ;  Nantucket  schools 
Don't  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  tlieir  basting?^ 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead. 

And  rubbed  it  o'er  a  box  of  earth 
That  stood  on  deck, — a  parsnip-bed, 

And  then  he  sought  the  skipper's  berth. 

"  Where  are  we  now,  sir  ?    Please  to  taste." 
The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue, 

Opened  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste, 
And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung ! 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair. 
Thrust  on  his  boots,  and  i-oared  to  Marden, 

"  Nantucket's  sunk,  and  liere  we  are 

Right  over  old  Marm  Hackett's  garden  ! " 


103 


WHAT  THE  OLD  MAN  SAID.— Alice  Robbins. 

Well,  yes,  sir, — yes,  sir,  thankee ; 

So,  so,  for  mj'  time  of  life, 
I'm  pretty  gray,  and  bent  with  pains 

That  cut  my  nerves  TiKe  a  knife. 
The  winters  bear  liard  upon  me. 

The  summers  scorch  me  sore ; 
I'm  sort  o'  weary  of  all  the  world, 

And  I'm  only  turned  three-score. 

My  goorl  old  fatlier  is  ninety. 
And  as  hearty  as  a  buck ; 


104  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICK    SELECTIONS 

You  wont  find  many  men  of  his  age 

So  full  of  vigor  and  pluck  ; 
He  felled  the  hist  tree  cut  in  the  place 

And  laid  the  first  log  down ; 
And  living  an  honest  temperate  life, 

He's  the  head  man  of  the  town. 

But  you  see  when  I  was  twenty  or  so, 

I  wanted  to  go  to  the  city, 
And  I  got  with  a  wild  set  over  there. 

That  were  neither  wise  nor  witty ; 
And  so  I  laid  the  foundation,  sir. 

Of  what  you  see  to-day, — 
Old,  little  a-past  the  prime  of  life, 

And  a  general  wasting  away. 

'Taint  a  natural  fever,  this,  sir ; 

It's  one  no  doctor  can  cure ; 
I  was  made  to  bear  strong  burdens, — 

Ox-like,  and  slow  but  sure. 
But  I  only  lived  for  my  pleasures, 

Though  I  had  been  Christian  bred; 
I  lived  for  self,  sir,  and  here's  the  end, 

Crawling  about  half-dead. 

Well,  well,  'twont  do  to  think  on't; 

I  try  to  forget  my  pain. 
My  poisoned  blood,  and  my  shattered  nerves, 

My  wreck  of  body  and  brain  ; 
Only  I  saw  you  drinking  just  now. 

Drinking  that  devil's  drain ; 
There's  where  I  liked  to  have  stepped  into  hell. 

And  gone  by  the  fastest  train. 

You  don't  like  my  blunt  speech,  mebbe ; 

Well,  'tisn't  the  nicest  cut. 
Only  when  a  man's  looked  over  the  brink, 

He  knows  what  he's  talking  about; 
And  if,  with  his  eyes  wide  open. 

He's  walked  straight  into  the  flame. 
And  nothing  less  than  the  mercy  of  God, 

Has  turned  his  glory  to  shame. 

Then,  when  he  says  there's  a  drunkard's  hell, 

You'd  better  believe  it  is  true ; 
I've  fought  with  the  devil  hand-to-hand. 

And  tested  him  through  and  through ; 


NUMBER   FIVK.  105 

We  know  who've  bartered  body  and  soul, 

Wliat  body  and  soul  are  worth  ; 
And  there's  nothing  like  to  a  drunkard's  woe 

In  all  God's  beautiful  earth. 

Wife,  children!    Haven't  I  had  them?     Yes, 

No  man  has  had  sweeter  than  I ; 
But  children  and  wife  are  dead  and  dust — 

Why,  what  could  they  do  but  die? 
Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  of  them,  because 

It  blots  out  God's  mercy  even ; 
And  it  don't  seem  sure,  though  I've  left  my  cups, 

That  my  sin  can  be  forgiven. 

I  tell  you  it's  hard  for  a  shattered  hulk 

To  drift  into  harbor  safe ; 
And  I  feel  sometimes,  with  my  three-score  years, 

Like  a  hopeless,  homeless  waif; 
But  there's  one  thing  certain,  I've  overcome! 

And  I'll  fight  while  I  draw  a  breath, 
When  I  see  a  tine  young  fellow  like  you 

Going  down  to  the  gates  of  death. 

You'll  laugh,  perhaps,  at  an  old  man's  zeal ; 

I  laughed  in  a  young  man's  glee ; 
But  God  forbid  if  you  reach  three-score, 

You  should  De  a  wreck  like  me. 

—  Tlie  Indipcndent. 


SEVEN  AGES  OF   MAN.— Shakspearfj. 

All  the  world's  a  stage, 
J^nd  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players; 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
And  tlien  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then,  a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  rej)utation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.    And  then  the  justice, 

5* 


106  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 
And  so  be  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipjjered  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 
His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion, — 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 


GIVE  ME    BACK   MY  HUSBAND. 

Not  many  years  since,  a  young  married  couple,  from 
the  far,  "fast-anchored  isle,"  sought  our  shores  with  the 
most  sanguine  anticipations  of  prosperity  and  happiness. 
They  had  begun  to  realize  more  ithau  they  had  seen  iu 
the  visions  of  hope,  when,  in  an  evil  hour,  the  husband 
was  tempted  "to  look  upon  tlie  wine  when  it  is  red," 
and  to  taste  of  it  *'when  it  gives  its  color  in  the  cup." 
The  charmer  fastened  round  its  victim  all  the  serpent 
spells  of  its  sorcery,  and  he  fell ;  and  at  every  step  of  his 
degradation  from  the  man  to  the  brute,  and  downward, 
a  heart-string  broke  in  the  bosom  of  his  companion. 

Finally,  with  the  last  spark  of  hope  flickering  on  the 
altar  of  her  heart,  she  threaded  her  way  into  one  of  those 
shambles  where  man  is  made  such  a  thing  as  the  beasts 
of  the  field  would  bellow  at.  She  pressed  her  way  through 
the  bacchanalian  crowd  who  wore  reveling  there  in  their 
own  ruin.  With  her  bosom  full  of  "that  perilous  stuff 
that  preys  upon  the  heart,"  she  stood  before  the  plun- 
derer of  her  husband's  destiny,  and  exclaimei  in  tones 
of  startling  anguish,  "Give  me  back  my  husband."- 

"There's  your  husband,"  said  the  man,  as  he  pointed 
toward  the  prostrate  wretch. 

"That  my  husband  !  What  have  you  done  to  him? 
That  my  husband !     What  have  you  done  to  that  noble 


NUMBER   FIVE.  107 

form  that  once,  like  the  giant  oak,  held  its  protecting 
shade  over  the  fragile  vine  that  clung  to  it  fur  support 
and  shelter?  That  my  husband  !  With  vvhat  torpedo 
chill  have  you  touched  the  sinews  of  that  manly  arm  ? 
That  my  husband  1  What  have  you  done  to  that  once 
noble  brow,  which  he  wore  high  among  his  fellows,  as  if 
it  bore  the  superscription  of  the  Godhead?  That  my  hus- 
band !  What  have  you  done  to  that  eye  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  'look  erect  on  heaven,'  and  see  in  his  mir- 
ror tlie  image  of  his  God.  Wiiat  Egyptian  drug  have 
you  poured  into  his  veins,  and  turned  the  ambling  fount- 
ains of  the  heart  into  black  and  burning  pitch  ?  Give 
me  back  my  husband!  Undo  your  basilisk  spells,  and 
give  me  back  the  man  that  stood  with  me  by  the  altar  !" 

The  ears  of  the  rumseller,  ever  since  the  first  demijohn 
of  that  burning  liquid  was  opened  upon  our  shores,  have 
been  saluted,  at  every  stage  of  the  traffic,  with  just  such 
appeals  as  this.  Such  wives,  such  widows  and  mothers, 
such  ftitherless  children,  as  never  mourned  in  Israel  at 
the  massacre  of  Bethlehem,  or  at  the  burning  of  the 
Temple,  have  cried  in  his  ears,  morning,  noon,  and 
night,"  Give  me  back  my  husband  !  Give  me  back  my 
boy  !     Give  me  back  my  brother  !  " 

But  has  the  rumseller  been  confounded  or  speechless 
at  these  appeals  ?  No  !  not  he.  He  could  show  his  cre- 
dentials at  a  moment's  notice,  with  proud  defiance.  He 
always  carried  in  his  pocket  a  written  absolution  for  all 
he  had  done  and  could  do  in  his  work  of  destruction. 
He  had  bousxht  a  letter  of  indulgence.  I  mean  a  license,— 
a  precious  instrument,  signed  and  scaled  by  an  authority 
stronger  and  more  respectable  than  the  pope's.  He  con- 
founded !  Why,  the  whole  artillery  of  evil  power  was 
ready  to  open  in  his  defense  and  support.  Thus  shield- 
ed by  the  ajgis  of  the  law,  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  enemies  of  his  traffic.  He  had  the  image  and  super- 
scription of  Cicsar  on  his  credentials  and  unto  Cicsar  he 
appealed  ;  and  unto  Ca'sar,  too,  his  victims  appealed  and 
— appealed  in  vain. 


108  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOltE    SELECTIONS 


THE  OLD  YANKEE  FARMER. 

Wal,  Mr.  Brown,  how's  things  goin  on  with  y'  there 
daown  below?  I  s'pose  Boston  don't  look  much  as't  did 
fifty  year  ago.  I  v^as  telHn, — I  was  tellin  Miss  Pillsbury 
t'other  day,  ef  she  felt  smart  enough,  we'd  take  a  little 
jant  daown  and  look  raound  a  little.  But  she's  got  the 
rumatiz  so  luk  all  possest,  she  can't  stir  raound  much. 
She's  e'en  a'most  discouraged  sometimes,  but  I  tell  her 
I  guess  it'll  all  wear  off  arter  a  spell,  ha !  ha !  ha !  I 
doant  git  raound  much  myself  I'm  a  gittin  suthin  inter 
years,  but  I  tell  'em  I'm  better'n  half  the  young  folks 
naow. 

Folks  doant  live  now-a-days  as  they  used  ter  when  I 
was  a  boy.  Why,  tliey've  all  got  the  indisgeestion,  or 
some  plaguey  thing  or  nuther — ha!  ha!  ha!  'Taint  no 
wonder,  for  they  eat  everything  under  the  heavens.  In 
my  day,  I  never  heerd  uv  no  such  thing  as  chickin  sallit — 
and  dev'ld  crabs — and  tarry  pin — why  'ts  enough  ter 
kill  the  old  Harry.  I  happened  to  be  daown  ter  Con- 
cord t'other  day,  un  abaout  noon  I  tell  ye,  I  got  putty 
hungry.  I  was  lookin  raound  for  suthin  ter  eat,  un  see'd 
the  sign  uv  "  Restyrunt."  I  went  in  ur^  sot  daown  to  a 
little  table  baout's  big's  yer  hand,  un  putty  soon  a  black 
feller  come  along,  unsez  he,  "Wot'l  yer  have?"  I  looked 
at  him  consid'abie  sharp,  un  said,  sez  I,  "  Wal,  vittles,  I 
guess" — ha!  ha!  ha!  I  dunno  ^vot  nnder  heavens  he 
thought  I  w;is  there  arter,  'thout  'twas  for  suthin  ter  eat. 

Ef  I  should  live  till  next  Jinny  wary,  I  spose  I  shall 
be  eighty-three  year  old, — un  I  can  git  from  bed  ter  fire 
putty  handy  yit,  with  a  little  piece  er  carpet  on  the  floor — 
hi!  hi !  hi !  But  I  tell  'em  laint  goin  ter  do  much  more 
hard  work.  The  voung  folks  can  do  the  work  naow.  I 
guess  I've  done  abaout  my  sheer — ha!  ha!  ha!  Miss 
Pillsbury  sez  sometimes,  she's  moast  afraid  we  shall  hev 
ter  go  to  the  poor-house  ;  bat  I  tell  her  I  guess  we  shall 
manage  ter  keep  aout  feomehow  or  nuther. 


KUMBER   FIVE.  109 

Yes,  I  calculate  ter  take  things  putty  easy.  I  doant  do 
much  but  walk  raouud  aud  look  at  the  boys  a  little. 
They  was  a-mowiu  the  old  spriug-piece  t'other  day,  and 
I  said  ter  my  oldest  son,  Isaiah :  "  Isaiah,"  sez  I,  "I'll  bate 
yeou  the  best  caow  in  the  barn,  I  ken  mow  raound  the 
old  spring-piece  quicker'n  you  can  ter  save  yer  gizzard." 
Wal,  he  didn't  take  mc  up,  not  ret  away — ha  !  ha !  ha ! 
I  think  's  jes  like  as  not,  I  sh'd  a  gin  aout  by  the  time  I 
got  to  the  lower  bars,  but  I'd  a  gin  him  a  pull  at  the 
start,  by  Jehewkabus — ha  !  ha !  ha  !  I  was  daown  ter 
the  store  t'other  day  lookin  raound,  and  I  sez  to  Mr. 
Jones,  sez  I,  "  What  are  you  a-taxin  for  your  merlassis  ?  " 
Wal,  he  said  he  had  some  good  for  twenty-eight  cents 
a  garlon — but  the  best,  sez  he,  is  thirty-cents.  Sez  I,  "You 
may  give  me  a  quart  uv  the  best, — the  best  is  good  enough 
for  me" — ha !  ha  !  ha  !  He  asked  me  ef  I  chawed  as  much 
terbacker  as  I  used  ter  ?  I  told  him  I  guessed — I  guessed 
I  chawed  a  leetle  more  ef  anvthina: — hi!  hi!  hi!  He 
said  he  had  some  thet  he  could  reecommend.  I  told  him 
I  ginerally — Iginerally  got  thecaum'n  pigtail  terbacker, 
and  soaked  it  in  a  leetle  whisky  un  merlassis,  un  one 
thing  another,  un  it  was  as  good  terbacker  as  I  want  ter 
chaw — hi !  hi !  hi ! 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP. 

Golden  head  so  lowly  bending, 

Little  feet  so  white  and  bare, 
Dewy  eyes,  half  wbut,  half  opened, 

Lisping  out  her  evening  prayer. 

"'Now  I  lay,'— repeat  it,  darling," 

"Lay  me,"  lisped  tlie  tiny  lips 
Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 

O'er  the  folded  finger  tips. 

"  Down  to  sleep,"—"  To  sleep,"  she  murmured, 

And  tlie  curly  head  bent  low  ; 
"  I  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added, 

"  You  can  say  it  all,  I  know." 


110 


ONS    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELKCTIOKS 

«  Pray  the  Lord,"  the  sound  came  faintly, 
Fainter  still-"  My  soul  to  keep  ; 

Then  the  tired  head  fairly  nodded, 
And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 

But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 
When  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast, 

And  the  dear  voice  softly  whispered,^ 
"  Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest. 

Oh  the  trusting,  sweet  confiding 
Of  the  child-heart !     Would  tliat  i 

Thus  might  trust  my  Heavenly  lather, 
He  who  hears  my  feeblest  cry. 

Oh,  the  rapture,  sweet,  unbroken. 
Of  the  soul  who  wrote  that  prayerl 

Children's  myriad  voices  floating 
Up  to  heaven,  record  it  there. 

If,  of  all  that  has  been  written, 

1  could  choose  what  might  be  mine, 

It  should  be  that  child's  petition, 
Rising  to  the  throne  divine. 


LEARNING  TO  PRAY.-Mary  E.  Dodge. 

Kneelins,  fair  in  the  twilight  gray, 
A  beautiful  child  was  trying  to  pray ; 

His  cheek  on  his  mother's  knee, 
His  bare  little  feet  half  hidden. 
His  smile  still  coming  unbidden, 

And  his  heart  brimful  of  glee. 

"  I  want  to  laugh.     Is  it  naughty  ?     Say, 

0  mamma !  I've  had  such  fun  to-day 
I  hardly  can  say  my  prayers. 

1  don't  feel  just  like  praying; 

I  want  to  be  out-doors  playing. 

And  run,  all  undressed,  down  stairs. 

"  I  can  see  the  flowers  in  the  garden-bed. 
Shining  so  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  red  ; 

And  Sammy  is  swinging,  I  guess. 
Oh !  everything  is  so  fine  out  there, 
I  want  to  put  it  all  in  the  prayer,—  ^ 

Do  you  mean  I  can  do  it  by  'Yes? 


NUMBER  FIVE.  Ill 

"  When  I  say,  'Now  I  lay  me'— word  for  word, 
It  seems  to  uie  as  if  nobody  heard. 

Would  "Thank  you,  dear  God,'  be  right? 
He  gave  me  my  mammy, 
And  papa,  and  Sammy — 

0  mamma !  you  nodded  I  might." 

Clasijing  his  hands  and  hiding  his  face, 
Unconsciously  yearning  for  help  and  grace, 

The  little  one  now  began ; 
His  mother's  nod  and  sanction  sweet 
Had  led  him  close  to  the  dear  Lord's  feet, 

And  his  words  like  music  ran  : 

"  Thank  you  for  making  this  home  so  nice, 
The  dowers,  and  my  two  white  mice, — 

1  wish  I  could  keep  right  on  ; 

I  thank  you,  too,  for  every  day — 

Only  I'm  'most  too  glad  to  pray, 

Dear  God,  I  think  I'm  done. 

"Now,  mamma,  rock  me— just  a  minute — 
And  sing  the  hymn  with  'darling'  in  it 

I  wish  I  could  say  my  prayers! 
When  I  get  big,  I  know  I  can. 
Oh !  wont  it  be  nice  to  be  a  man. 

And  stay  all  night  down  stairs!  " 

The  mother,  singing,  clasi^ed  him  tight. 
Kissing  and  cooing  her  fond  "  Good-night," 

And  treasured  his  every  word. 
For  well  she  knew  that  the  artless  joy 
And  love  of  her  precious,  innocent  boy, 

Were  a  prayer  that  her  Lord  had  heard. 


INFAMOUS   LEGISLATION.— Edmund  Burke. 

Since  I  had  tlie  honor — I  should  say  the  dishonor — 
of  sitting  in  this  house,  I  have  been  witness  to  many 
strange,  many  infamous  transactions.  What  can  be  your 
intention  in  attacking  all  honor  and  virtue?  Do  you 
mean  to  bring  all  men  to  a  level  with  yo.irselves,  and 
to  extirpate  all  honor  and  independence?  Perhaps  you 
imagine  a  vote  will  settle  the  whole  controversy.     Alas! 


112  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

you  are  not  aware  that  the  manner  in  which  your  vote 
is  procured  is  a  secret  to  no  man. 

Listen.  Fur,  if  you  are  not  totally  callous,  if  your 
consciences  are  not  seared,  I  will  speak  daggers  to  your 
souls,  and  wake  you  to  all  the  pangs  of  guilty  recollec- 
tion. I  will  follow  you  with  whips  and  stings,  through 
every  maze  of  your  unexampled  turpitude,  and  plant 
thorns  under  the  rose  of  ministerial  approbation.  You 
have  flagrantly  violated  justice  and  the  law  of  the  laud, 
and  opened  a  door  for  anarchy  and  confusion.  After 
assuming  an  arbitrary  dominion  over  law  and  justice, 
you  issue  orders,  warrants,  and  proclamations,  against 
every  opponent,  and  send  pi'isoners  to  your  Bastile  all 
those  who  have  the  courage  and  virtue  to  defend  the 
freedom  of  their  country.  But  it  is  in  vain  that  you 
hope  by  fear  and  terror  to  extinguish  the  native  British 
fire.  The  more  sacrifices,  the  more  martyrs  you  make, 
the  more  numerous  the  sons  of  liberty  will  become.  They 
will  multiply  like  the  hydra,  and  hurl  vengeance  on  your 
heads. 

Let  othere  act  as  they  will ;  while  I  have  a  tongue  or 
an  arm,  they  shall  be  free.  And  that  I  may  not  be  a 
witness  of  these  monstrous  proceedings,  I  will  leave  the 
house  ;  nor  do  I  doubt  but  every  independent,  every 
honest  man,  every  friend  to  England,  will  follow  me. 
These  walls  are  unholy,  baleful,  deadly,  while  a  prosti- 
tute majority  holds  the  bolt  of  parliamentary  power,  and 
hurls  its  vengeance  only  upon  the  virtuous.  To  youi-selves, 
therefore,  I  consign  you.  Enjoy  your  pandemonium. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY.— Rev.  R.  H.  Barham. 

ABRIDGED    AND    ADAPTED    FOR   RECITATION. 

The  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

The  Lady  Jane  was  fair ; 
And  Sir  Thomas,  her  lord,  was  stout  of  limb, 
And  his  cough  was  short,  and  his  eyes  were  dim, 


NUMBER    FIVE.  113 

And  he  wore  green  "specs"  with  a  tortoise-shell  rim, 
And  his  hat  was  remarkably  broad  in  the  brim, 
And  she  was  uncommonly  fond  of  him, — 

And  they  were  a  loving  pair! 
And  wherever  they  went,  or  wherever  they  came, 
Every  one  hailed  them  with  loudest  acclaim  ; 

Far  and  wide, 

The  people  cried, 
All  sorts  of  pleasure,  and  no  sort  of  pain, 
To  Sir  Thomas  the  good,  and  the  fair  Lady  Janel 

Now  Sir  Thomas  the  good,  be  it  well  understood, 

Was  a  man  of  very  contemplative  mood,— 

He  would  pore  by  the  hour,  o'er  a  weed  or  a  flower, 

Or  the  slugs,  that  came  crawling  out  after  a  shower  ; 

Black  beetles,  bumble-bees,  blue-bottle  flies. 

And  moths,  were  of  no  small  account  in  his  eyes; 

An  "industrious  flea,"  he'd  by  no  means  despise, 

While  an  "old  daddy-long-legs,"  whose  long  legs  and  thighs 

Passed  the  common  in  shape,  or  in  color,  or  size, 

He  was  wont  to  consider  an  absolute  prize. 

Giving  up,  in  short,  both  business  and  sport,  he 

Abandoned  himself,  tout  entier,  to  philosophy. 

Now  as  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

And  Lady  Jane  was  fair. 
And  a  good  many  years  the  junior  of  him. 
There  are  some  might  be  found  entertaining  a  notion 
Tluvt  such  an  entire  and  exclusive  devotion 
To  that  part  of  science  folks  style  entomology. 

Was  a  positive  shame, 

And,  to  such  a  fair  dame, 
Really  demanded  some  sort  of  apology ; 
Ever  poking  his  nose  into  this,  and  to  that, — 
At  a  gnat,  or  a  bat,  or  a  cat,  or  a  rat. 
At  great  ugly  things,  all  legs  and  wings. 
With  nasty  long  tails,  armed  with  nasty  long  stings; 
And  eternally  thinking,  and  blinking,  and  winking, 
At  grubs— when  he  ought  of  her  to  be  thinking. 
But  no,  ah  no !  'twas  by  no  means  so 

With  the  fair  Lady  Jane. 

lout  au  contra  ire,  no  lady  so  fair 
Was  e'er  known  to  wear  more  contented  an  air; 
And -let  who  would  call — every  day  she  was  there, 
Propounding  receipts  for  some  delicate  fare, 


114  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

Some  toothsome  conserve,  of  quince,  apple,  or  pear; 
Or  distilling  strong  waters,  or  potting  a  hare ; 
Or  counting  her  spoons  and  her  crockery  ware; 
Enough  to  make  less  gifted  visitors  stare. 

Nay,  more  ;  don't  suppose 

With  such  doings  as  those 
This  account  of  her  mi^rits  must  come  to  a  close; 
No  !— examine  her  conduct  more  closely,  you'll  find 
She  by  no  means  neglected  improving  her  mind  ; 
For  there  all  the  while,  with  an  air  quite  bewitching, 
She  sat  herring-boning,  tambouring,  or  stitching, 
Or  having  an  eye  to  atTairs  of  the  kitchen. 

Close  by  her  side. 

Sat  her  kinsman  MacBride, — 
Captain  Dugald  MacBride,  Royal  Scots  Fusiliers; 
And  1  doubt  if  you'd  tind,  in  the  whole  of  his  clan, 
A  more  highly  intelligent,  worthy  young  man  ; 

And  there  he'd  be  sitting, 

While  she  was  a-knitting, 
Reading  aloud,  with  a  very  grave  look, 
Some  very  "wise  saw,"  from  some  very  good  book. 

No  matter  who  came, 

It  was  always  the  same. 
The  Captain  was  reading  aloud  to  the  dame, 
Till,  from  having  gone  through  half  the  books  on  the  shelf, 
They  were  almost  as  wise  as  Sir  Thomas  himself. 

Well  it  hapi^ened  one  day — 

I  really  can't  say 
The  particular  month,  but  I  think  'twas  in  May, 
'Twas  I  know  in  the  spring-time,  when  "nature  looks  gay," 
As  the  poet  observes,  and  on  tree-top  and  spray. 
The  dear  little  dickey  birds  carol  away — 
That  the  whole  of  the  house  was  thrown  into  affright 
For  no  soul  could  conceive  what  was  gone  with  the  knight. 

It  seems  he  had  taken 

A  light  breakfast, — bacon. 
An  egg,  a  little  broiled  haddock,  at  most 
A  round  and  a  half  of  some  hot  buttered  toast, 
With  a  slice  of  cold  sirloin  from  yesterday's  roast, 

But  no  matter  for  that, — 

He  liad  called  for  his  hat 
With  the  brim  that  I've  said  was  so  broad  and  so  flat, 
And  his  "specs"  with  the  tortoise-shell  rim,  and  his  cane. 


NUMBER  FIVE.  115 

Thus  armed,  Le  set  out  on  a  ramble — a-lack  ! 

He  set  out,  poor  dear  soul !  but  he  never  came  back  ! 

First  dinner-bell  rang 

Out  its  euphonious  clang 
At  five — folks  kept  earlj'  hours  then— and  the  last 
Ding-donged,  as  it  ever  was  wont,  at  half-past. 
Still  the  master  was  absent ;  the  cook  came  and  said,  he 
Feared  dinner  would  spoil,  having  been  so  long  ready  ; 
That  the  puddings  her  ladyship  thought  such  a  treat 
He  was  morally  sure,  would  be  scarce  fit  to  eat ! 
Said  the  lady,  "  Dish  up  !     Let  the  meal  be  served  straight, 
And  let  two  or  three  slices  be  put  on  a  plate. 
And  kept  hot  for  Sir  Thomas."     Captain  Dugald  said  grace, 
Then  sat  himself  down  in  Sir  Thomas's  place. 

Wearily,  wearily,  all  that  night, 

•  Tliat  livelong  night  did  the  hours  go  by  ; 
And  the  Lady  Jane, 
In  grief  and  pain. 
She  sat  herself  down  to  cry  ! 

And  Captain  MacBride, 
Who  sat  by  her  side. 
Though  I  really  can't  say  that  he  actually  cried, 

At  least  had  a  tear  in  his  eye! 
As  much  as  can  well  be  expected,  perhaps. 
From  "very  young  fellows,"  for  very  "old  chaps." 
And  if  he  had  .said 
What  he'd  got  in  his  head, 
'Twould  have  been,  "  Poor  old  BuS"er,  he's  certainly  dead  !  " 

The  morning  dawned,  and  the  next,  and  the  next. 
And  all  in  the  mansion  were  still  perplexed ; 

No  knocker  fell. 

His  ai^proach  to  (ell ; 
Not  BO  much  as  a  runaway  ring  at  the  bell. 

Yet  the  sun  shone  bright  upon  tower  and  tree, 
And  the  meads  smiled  green  as  green  may  be, 
And  the  dear  little  dickey  birds  caroled  with  glee. 
And  the  lambs  in  the  park  skijjped  merry  and  free. 
Without,  all  was  joy  and  harmony  ! 

And  thus  'twill  be— nor  long  the  day — 
Ere  we,  like  him,  shall  pass  away  ! 
Yon  sun  that  now  our  bosoms  warms, 
Shall  shine— but  shine  on  other  forms; 


116  ONE   HUNDRED   CHO^ICE  SELECTIONS 

Yon  grove,  whose  choir  so  sweetly  cheers 
Us  now,  shall  sound  on  other  ears  ; 
The  joyous  lamh,  as  now,  shall  play, 
But  other  eyes  its  sports  survey ; 
The  stream  we  loved  shall  roll  as  fair, 
The  flowery  sweets,  the  trim  parterre, 
Shall  scent,  as  now,  the  amhient  air ; 
The  tree  whose  bending  branches  bear 
The  one  loved  name  shall  yet  be  there — 
But  where  the  hand  that  carved  it  ?     Where  f 

These  were  hinted  to  me  as  the  very  ideas 
Which  passed  through  the  mind  of  the  fair  Lady  Jane, 
As  she  walked  on  the  esplanade  to  and  again, 

With  Captain  MacBride, 

Of  course  at  her  side. 
Who  could  not  look  quite  so  forlorn— though  he  tried. 
An  "idea"  in  fact,  ha<i  got  into  liis  head 
That  if  "poor  dear  Sir  Thomas"  should  really  be  dead, 
It  might  be  no  bad  "spec"  to  be  there  in  his  stead, 
And  by  simply  contriving,  in  due  time,  to  wed 

A  lady  who  was  young  and  fair, 

A  lady  slim  and  tall, 
To  set  himself  down  in  comfort  there 

The  lord  of  Tapton  Hall. 

Thinks  he,  "We  have  sent 

Half  over  Kent, 
And  nobody  knows  how  much  money's  been  spent. 
Yet  no  one's  been  found  to  say  which  way  he  went ! 
Here's  a  fortnight  and  more  has  gone  by,  and  we've  tried 
Every  plan  we  could  hit  on, — and  had  him  well  cried, 

'Missing  !  !  Stolen  or  Strayed, 

Lost  or  Mislaid, 
A  Gentleman,  middle-aged,  sober  and  staid  ; 
Stoops  slightly,  and  when  he  left  home  was  arrayed 
In  a  sad-colored  suit,  somewhat  dingy  and  frayed ; 
Had  spectacles  on  with  a  tortoise-shell  rim. 
And  a  hat  rather  low-crowned,  and  broad  in  the  brim. 

Whoe'er  shall  bear. 

Or  send  him  with  care, 
(Right  side  uppermost)  home  ;  or  shall  give  notice  where 
The  said  middle-aged  Gentleman  is  ;  or  shall  state 
Any  fact  that  may  tend  to  throw  light  on  his  fate 
To  the  man  at  the  turnpike,  called  Tappington  Gate, 
Shall  receive  a  reward  of  five  pounds  for  his  trouble. 
N.  B.  If  defunct,  the  reward  will  bo  double  !  •' 


NUMBE  R    FIVE.  117 

"Had  he  been  above  ground, 

He  must  have  been  found. 
No  ;  doubtless  he's  shot,  or  he's  hanged,  or  he's  drowned ! 

Then  his  widow — ay  !  ay ! 

But  what  will  folks  say  ? 
To  address  her  at  once,  at  so  early  a  day  ! 
Well— what  then  ? — who  cares! — let'em  say  what  they  may." 

AVhen  a  man  has  decided. 

As  Cax)tain  MacBride  did. 
And  once  fully  made  up  his  mind  on  the  matter,  he 
Can't  be  too  prompt  in  unmasking  his  battery. 
He  began  on  tlie  instant,  and  vowed  that  her  eyes 
Far  exceeded  in  brilliance  the  stars  in  the  skies  ; 
That  her  lips  were  like  roses,  her  cheeks  were  like  lilies ; 
Her  breath  had  the  odor  of  dalfy-down-dillies! 
AVith  a  thousand  more  compliments,  equally  true, 
Expressed  in  similitudes  equally  new! 

Then  his  left  arm  he  placed 

Round  her  jimp,  taper  waist — 
Ere  she  fixed  to  repulse  or  return  his  embrace, 
Up  came  running  a  man  at  a  deuce  of  a  pace, 
AV'itli  that  very  peculiar  expression  of  face 
Which  always  betokens  dismay  or  disaster, 
Crying  out— 'twas  the  gard'ner — "Oh,  ma'am!    we've  found 

master!  " 
"Where!  where?"  screamed  the  lady;  and  echo  screamed 
"Where?" 

The  man  couldn't  say  "there  1 " 

He  had  no  breath  to  spare, 
But  gasping  for  breath  he  could  only  respond 
By  pointing — he  pointed,  alas  \—to  tlie  pond. 

'Twas  e'en  so  ;    poor  dear  knight,  with  his  "specs"  and  his 

hat. 
He'd  gone  poking  his  nose  into  this  and  to  that ; 
When  close  to  the  side  of  the  bank,  he  esjjied 
An  uncommon  fine  tadpole,  remarkably  fat ! 

He  stooped — and  he  thought  her 

His  own  ;  he  had  cauglit  her! 
Got  hold  of  her  tail,  and  to  land  almost  brought  her. 
When — he  plumped  head  and  heels  into  fifteen  feet  water! 

The  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

The  Lady  Jane  was  fair, 
Alas  for  Sir  Thomas! — she  grieved  for  him, 
As  she  saw  two  serving  men  sturdy  of  limb, 

Ilia  body  between  them  bear. 


118  ONE   HUNDRED    CII  O  I  CE   SE  LECT  I  O  NS 

She  sobbed  and  she  sighed,  she  lamented  and  cried, 

For  of  sorrow  brimful  was  her  cup  ; 
She  swooned,  and  1  think  she'd  have  fallen  down  and  died 

If  Captain  MacBride 

Hadn't  been  by  her  side 
With  the  fjard'ner; — they  both  their  assistance  supplied, 
And  managed  to  hold  her  up. 

But  when  she  "comes  to," 

Oh  !  'tis  shocking  to  view 
The  sight  which  the  corpse  reveals ! 

Sir  Tliomas'  body. 

It  looked  so  odd— he 
Was  half  eaten  up  by  the  eels ! 

His  waistcoat  and  hose, 

And  the  rest  of  his  clothes 
Were  all  gnawed  through  and  through; 

And  out  of  each  shoe. 

An  eel  they  drew ; 
And  from  each  of  his  pockets  they  pulled  out  two ! 
And  the  gard'ner  himself  had  secreted  a  few, 

As  well  might  be  supposed  he'd  do. 
For,  when  he  came  running  to  give  the  alarm. 
He  had  six  in  the  basket  that  hung  on  his  arm. 

Good  Father  John  was  summoned  anon  ; 

Holy  water  was  sprinkled  and  little  bells  tinkled. 

And  tapers  were  lighted. 

And  incense  ignited. 
And  masses  were  sung,  and  masses  were  said, 
All  day,  for  the  quiet  repose  of  the  dead, 
And  all  night  no  one  thought  about  going  to  bed. 

But  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

And  Lady  Jane  wa(R  fair, 
And  ere  raorjiing  came,  that  winsome  dame 
Had  made  up  her  mind,  or — what's  much  the  same — 
Had  thought  about,  once  more  changing  her  name. 

And  she  said,  with  a  pensive  air, 
To  Thompson,  the  valet,  while  taking  away, 
When  supper  was  over,  the  cloth  and  the  tray : 
"  Eels  a  many  I've  ate  ;  but  any 

So  good  ne'er  tasted  before  ! 
They're  a  fish  too,  of  which  I'm  remarkably  fond- 
Go — pop  Sir  Thomas  again  in  the  pond  ; 

Poor  desLrl—Jie'U  catch  us  some  more." 


NUMBER    FIVE.  ]19 

YOU  PUT  NO    FLOWERS  ON   MY  PAPA'S     GRAVE. 

C.  E.  L.  Holmes. 

With  siible-draped  banners,  and  slow  measured  tread, 

The  flower  laden  ranks  pass  the  gates  of  the  dead  ; 

And  seeking  each  mound  where  a  comrade's  form  rests, 

Leave  tear-bedewed  garlands  to  bloom  on  his  breast. 

Ended  at  last  is  the  labor  of  love  ; 

Once  more  through  the  gateway  the  saddened  lines  move— 

A  wailing  of  anguish,  a  sobbing  of  grief. 

Falls  low  on  the  ear  of  the  battle-scarred  chief; 

Close  crouched  by  the  portals,  a  sunny-haired  child 

Besought  him  in  accents  which  grief  rendered  wild : 

"  Oh !  sir,  he  was  good,  and  they  say  he  died  brave — 

"Why,    why  did  you  jjass  by  my  dear  jiajja's  grave? 

I  know  he  was  poor,  but  as  kind  and  as  true 

As  ever  marched  into  the  battle  with  you ; 

His  grave  is  so  humble,  no  stone  marks  the  spot. 

You  may  not  have  seen  it.    Oh,  say  you  did  not! 

For  my  poor  heart  will  break  if  you  knew  he  was  there, 

And  thought  him  too  lowly  your  offerings  to  share. 

He  didn't  die  lowly— he  poured  his  heart's  blood, 

In  rich  crimson  streams,  from  the  top-crowning  sod 

Of  the  breastworks  which  stood  in  front  of  the  figlit — 

And  died  shouting,  'Onward!  for  God  and  tlie  right!' 

O'er  all  his  dead  comrades  your  bright  garlands  wave. 

But  you  haven't  put  one  on  my  papa's  grave. 

If  mamma  were  here — but  she  lies  by  his  side, 

Her  wearied  heart  broke  when  our  dear  papa  died." 

"  Battalion  !  file  left !  countermarch  !  "  cried  the  chief, 

"This  young  orphaned  maid  hath  full  cause  for  her  grief." 

Then  up  in  his  anus  frtjm  the  hot,  dusty  .3treet, 

He  lifted  the  maiden,  while  in  through  the  gate 

The  long  line  repasses,  and  man}'  an  eye 

Pays  fresh  tribute  of  tears  to  tlie  lone  orphan's  sigh. 

"This  way,  it  is — here,  sir,  right  under  this  tree ; 
They  lie  close  together,  with  just  room  for  me." 

"  Halt !    Cover  with  roses  each  lowly  green  mound ; 

A  love  pure  as  this  makes  these  graves  hallowed  ground." 

"Oh!  thank  you,  kind  sir!  I  ne'er  can  repay 
The  kindne.sri  you've  shown  little  Daisy  to-day  ; 


120  ONE    nUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  I'll  pray  for  yoa  here,  each  day  while  I  live, 
'Tis  all  that  a  poor  soldier's  orphan  can  give. 
I  shall  see  pajm  soon,  and  dearmamaia,  too — 
I  dreamed  so  last  night,  and  i  know  'twill  come  true ; 
And  they  will  both  bless  you,  I  know,  when  1  say 
How  you  folded  your  arms  round  their  dear  one  to-day ; 
How  you  cueered  her  sad  heart,  and  soothed  it  to  rest, 
And  hushed  its  wild  throbs  on  your  strong,  noble  breast; 
And  when  the  kind  angels  shall  call  you  to  come, 
We'll  welcome  you  there  to  our  beautiful  home 
Where  death  never  comes,  his  black  banners  to  wave, 
And  the  beautiful  flowers  ne'er  weep  o'er  a  grave." 


SORROW  FOR  THE  DE AD.— AVashington  Irving. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  wliicli 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek 
to  heal,  every  other  affliction  to  forget;  but  this  wound 
we  consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open  ;  this  affliction  we 
cherish  and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother 
who  would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  peristed  like 
a  blossom  from  her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a 
pang  ?  Where  is  the  child  that  would  willingly  forget 
the  most  tender  of  parents,  though  to  remember  be  but 
to  lament  ?  Who,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would 
forget  the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns  ?  Who — even 
when  the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most 
loved,  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the 
closing  of  its  portals — would  accept  of  consolation  that 
must  be  bought  by  forgetfulness? 

No,  the  love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  no- 
blest attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  like- 
wise its  delights ;  and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of 
grief  is  calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection,  when 
the  sudden  anguish  and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the 
present  ruins  of  all  that  we  most  loved  is  softened  away 
into  pensive  meditation  on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of 
its  loveliness,  who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow  from  the 


NUMBER    FIVE.  121 

heart?  Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing  cloud 
over  the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sad- 
ness over  the  hour  of  gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange 
it  even  for  the  song  of  pleasure,  or  the  bui'st  of  revelry  ? 

No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song. 
There  is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead  to  which  we  turn, 
even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave !  the 
grave  !  It  buries  every  error,  covers  every  defect,  extin- 
guishes every  resentment !  From  its  peaceful  bosom 
spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections. 
Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave,  even  of  an  enemy, 
and  not'  feel  a  compunctious  throb  that  he  should  ever 
have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies 
mouldering  before  him  ? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved,  what  a  place  for  med- 
itation !  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  tlie 
whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand 
endearments  lavished  upon  us,  almost  unheeded  in  the 
daily  intercourse  of  intimacy  ;  there  it  is  that  we  dwell 
upon  the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the 
parting  scene ;  the  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs, 
its  noiseless  attendance,  its  mute,  watchful  assiduities; 
The  last  testimonies  of  expiring  love!  the  feeble,  flutter- 
ing, thrilling — oh,  how  thrilling  ! — pressure  of  the  hand  ! 
the  faint,  faltering  accents,  struggling  in  death  to  give 
one  more  assurance  of  affection  !  The  last  fond  look  of 
the  glazing  eye,  turning  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold 
of  existence  !  Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love  and 
meditate.  There  settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience 
for  every  past  benefit  unrequited,  every  past  endearment 
unregarded,  of  that  departed  being  who  can  never,  never, 
never  return  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition. 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to 
the  soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affection- 
ate parent ;  if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused 
the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  tliy 
arms  to  doubt  (Tne  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth  ; 
if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought, 


« 


122  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that  generously  confided  in 
thee ;  if  thou  art  a  lover,  and  hast  ever  given  one  unmei*- 
ited  pang  to  that  true  heart  that  now  lies  cold  and  still 
beneath  thy  feet ; — then  be  sure  that  every  unkind  look, 
every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle  action  will  come 
thronging  Dack  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  dolefully 
at  thy  soul ;  then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrow- 
ing and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard 
groan,  and  pour  the  unavailing  tear,  more  deep,  more 
bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beau- 
ties of  nature  about  the  grave ;  console  thy  broken  spirit, 
if  thou  canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  re- 
gret ;  but  take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy  con- 
trite affliction  over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more 
faithful  and  affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to 
the  living. 


ANNABEL  LEE.— Edgar  A.  Poe. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee, — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


N  UMBER   FIVE. 


123 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Wont  envying  her  and  me, 
Yes  I  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night. 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  so  all  the  night-tide,  1  lie  down  by  the  side 
01  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

lu  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


DEBORAH   LEE.— A  PARODY. 

'Tis  a  dozen  or  so  of  years  ago, 
Somewhere  in  the  West  countree, 

That  a  nice  girl  lived,  as  ye  Hoosiers  know, 
By  the  name  of  Deborah  Lee. 

Her  sister  was  loved  by  Edgar  Poe, 
But  Deborah  by  me. 

Now  I  was  green  and  she  was  green 

As  a  .summer's  squash  might  be. 
And  we  loved  as  warmly  as  other  folks, 

I  and  my  Deborah  Lee  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  lasses  of  Hoosierdom 

Coveted  lier  and  me. 

But  somehow  it  happened  long  ago, 

In  the  agueish  West  countree. 
That  a  (!hill  March  nmrning  gave  the  shakes 

To  my  beautiful  Deborah  Lee; 
And  the  grim  steam-<]()ctf)r  (Iiang  him  I)  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me  ; — 


124  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SK  LECTIONS 

Tlie  doctor  and  death,  old  partners  they, 
In  the  agueish  West  countree. 

The  angels  wanted  her  up  in  heaven, 

But  they  never  asked  for  me, 
And  that  is  the  reason,  I  rather  guess, 

In  the  agueish  West  countree. 
That  the  cold  March  wind  and  the  doctor  and  death, 

Took  ofl"  my  Deborah  Lee 
From  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  opening  flowers, 

And  took  her  away  from  me. 

Our  love  was  strong  as  a  six-horse  team, 

Or  the  love  of  folks  older  than  we. 

And  possibly  wiser  than  we, 
But  death,  with  the  aid  of  doctor  and  steam, 

Was  rather  too  many  for  me ; 
He  closed  the  peepers,  and  silenced  the  breath 

Of  my  sweetheart,  Deborah  Lee ; 
And  her  form  lies  cold  in  the  deep,  dark  mold, 

Silent  and  cold — ah  me ! 

The  foot  of  the  hunter  shall  press  the  grave, 

And  the  prairie's  sweet  wild  flowers. 
In  their  odorous  beauty,  around  it  wave 

Through  all  the  sunny  hours ; 
And  the  birds  shall  sing  in  the  tufted  grass,  | 

And  the  nectar  laden  bee, 
With  his  dreamy  hum,  on  his  gauze  wings  pass,  — 

She  wakes  no  more  to  me. 

Oh  !  never  more  to  me ; 
Though  the  wild  birds  sing  and  the  wild  flowers  spring, 

She  awakes  no  more  to  me. 

Yet  oft  in  the  hush  of  the  dim,  still  night, 

A  vision  of  beauty  I  see  ; 
Gliding  soft  to  my  bedside, — a  phantom  of  light, — 

Dear,  beautiful  Deborah  Lee, 

My  bride  that  was  to  be. 
And  I  wake  to  mourn  that  the  doctor  and  death. 
And  the  cold  March  wind  should  stop  the  breath 

Of  ray  darling  Deborah  Lee, 

Adorable  Deborah  Lee ; 
That  angels  should  want  her  up  in  heaven 

Before  they  wanted  me. 


I 


NUMBER  FIVE.  125 

OVER  THE  HILLS  FROM  THE   POOR-HOUSE* 
May  MiGNONKrfE. 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poor-house  sad  paths  have  been  made 

to-day, 
For  sorrow  is  near,  such  as  maketh  the  heads  of  the  young 

turn  gray, 
Causing  the  heart  of  the  careless  to  throb  with  a  fevered 

breath, — 
The  sorrow  that  leads  to  the  chamber  whose  light  has  gone 

out  in  death. 

To  Susan,  Rebecca  and  Isaac,  to  Thomas  and  Charley,  word 

sped 
That  mother  was  ill  and  fast  failing,  perhaps  when  they 

heard  might  be  dead  ; 
But  e'en  while  they  wrote  she  was  praying  that  some  of  her 

children  migiit  come, 
To  hear  from  her  lips  their  last  blessing  before  she  should 

start  for  her  home. 

To  Susan,  poor  Susan !  how  bitter  the  agony  brought  b}"-  the 

call. 
For  deep  in  her  heart  for  her  mother  wide  rooms  had  been 

left  after  all ; 
And  now,  that  she  thought,  by  her  fireside  one  place  had 

been  vacant  for  3'ears, 
And  while  "o'er  the  hills"  she  was  speeding  her  path  might 

be  traced  by  her  tears. 

Rebecca ,  she  heard  not  the  tidings,  but  those  who  bent 

over  her  knew 
That  led  by  the  Angel  of  Death,  near  the  waves  of  the  river 

she  drew  ; 
Delirious,  ever  she  told  them  her  motlier  was  cooling  her 

head, 
While,  weeping,  they  thought  that  ere  morning  both  mother 

and  child  might  be  dead. 

And,  kneeling  beside  her,  stern  Isaac  was  quiv'ring  in  aspen- 
like grief, 

While  waves  of  sad  memory  surged  o'er  him  like  billows  of 
wind  o'er  the  leaf; 

"Too  late,"  were  tlie  words  that  had  humbled  his  cold, 
haughty  pride  to  the  dust, 

And  Peace,  with  herolive-boughs  laden,  crowned  loving  for- 
giveness with  trust. 

*Tlii)ii(rlits  su^'^'i'KtcMi  liy  Will  l^arliiUiii't)  "Over  tlio  Hill  tu  t lie  I'oni-lioiisu," 
in  No.  4  i>f  Ihis  aorius.  "  Over  tUo  Hill  from  thu  i'uor-liuuao,"  by  Will  Cailetoii, 
is  ill  Hu.  1<J. 


126  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Bowed  over  his  letters  and  papers,  sat  Thomas,  his  brow 

lined  by  thought. 
But  little  he  heeded  the  markets  or  news  of  his  gains  that 

they  brought ; 
His  lips  grew  as  pale  as  his  cheek,  but  new  purpose  seemed 

born  in  his  eye, 
And  Thomas  went  ''over  the  hills,"  to  the  mother  that  shortly 

must  die. 

To  Charley,  her  youngest,  her  pride,  came  the  mother's  mes- 
sage that  morn. 

And  he  was  away  "o'er  the  hills"  ere  the  sunlight  blushed 
over  the  corn  ; 

And,  strangest  of  all,  by  his  side,  was  the  wife  he  had 
'"brought  from  the  town," 

Who  silently  wept,  while  her  tears  strung  with  diamonds  her 
plain  mourning  gown. 

^or  each  had  been  thinking,  of  late,  how  they  missed  the 
old  mother's  sweet  smile. 

And  wondering  how  they  could  have  been  so  blind  and  un- 
just all  that  while  ; 

They  thought  of  their  harsh,  cruel  words,  and  longed  to  a- 
tone  for  the  past. 

When  swift  o'er  the  heart  of  vain  dreams  swept  the  presence 
of  death's  chilling  blast. 

So  into  the  chamber  of  death,  one  by  one,  these  sad  children 

had  crept, 
As  they,  in  their  childhood,  had  done,  when  mother  was 

tired  and  slept ; 
And  peace,  rich  as  then,  came  to  each,  as  they  drank  in  her 

blessing,  so  deep. 
That,  breathing  into  her  life,  she  fell  back  in  her  last  blessed 

sleep. 

And  when  "o'er  the  hills  from  the  poor-house,"  that  mother 
is  tenderly  borne, 

The  life  of  her  life,  her  loved  children,  tread  softly,  and  si- 
lently mourn, 

For  theirs  is  no  rivulet  sorrow,  but  deep  as  the  ocean  is  deep, 

And  into  our  lives,  with  sweet  healing,  the  balm  of  their 
bruising  may  creep. 

For  swift  come  the  flashings  of  temper,  and  torrents  of  words 
come  as  swift, 

Till  out  'mong  the  tide-waves  of  anger,  how  often  we  thought- 
lessly drift! 

And  heads  that  are  gray  with  life's  ashes,  and  feet  that  walk 
down  'mong  the  dead, 

We  send  "o'er  the  hills  to  the  poor-house"  for  love,  and,  it 
mav  be,  for  bread. 


NUMBER  FIVE.  127 

Oh !  when  shall  we  value  the  living  while  yet  the  keen 
sickle  is  stayed, 

Nor  sliii:ht  the  wild  tiowerin  its  blooming,  till  all  its  sweet 
life  is  decayed  ? 

Yet  often  the  fragrance  is  richest  when  poured  from  the 
bruised  blossom's  soul. 

And  "over  the  hills  from  the  poor-house"  the  rarest  of  mel- 
odies roll. 


'ABSENCE.— Frances  Anne  Kemble. 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, — 
Weary  with  longing  ?     Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime? 

Oh,  how  or  by  what  means  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near? 
How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
.     Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here? 

I'll  tell  thee  ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee. 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one  !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes  pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time;  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  u\>  in  me 

A  thousand  graces,  whidi  f-liiUi  thus  be  thine; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


128  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECT;'  NS 

EXTRACT  FROM   A    SPEECH    ON    TEMPER- 
ANCE.— Schuyler  Colfax. 

I  have  come  before  you  this  beautiful  Sabbath  after- 
noon not  to  speak  to  you  about  political  parties  nor  about 
the  details  of  legislation.  I  come  to  speak  to  you,  if  pos- 
sible, heart  to  heart,  soul  to  soul,  not  to  denounce,  but 
if  possible,  to  persuade.  I  come  not  to  demand,  but  to 
plead  with  every  one  of  you.  I  come  to  speak  for  that 
liberty  which  makes  us  free ;  that  liberty  which  elevates 
body  and  soul  above  the  thraldom  of  the  intoxicating 
cup.  We  have  jiassed  through  scenes  that  have  rocked 
this  land  to  its  centre,  on  the  question  whether  human 
slavery  should  continue  on  our  soil.  It  was  but  the  sla- 
very of  the  body.  It  was  but  for  this  life.  But  the  sla- 
very against  which  I  speak  to-day  is  the  slavery  of  not 
only  soul  and  body  and  talent  and  heart  for  this  life,  but 
is  P  slavery  which  goes  beyond  tlie  gates  of  the  tomb  to 
an  unending  eternity. 

We  speak  of  the  horrors  of  war,  and  there  are  horrors 
in  war.  Carnage,  and  bloodshed,  and  mutilation,  and 
broken  frames,  and  empty  sleeves,  and  widows'  weeds, 
and  children's  woes,  and  enormous  debts  and  grinding 
taxation,  all  come  from  war,  though  war  may  be  a' ne- 
cessity for  saving  a  nation's  life.  But  it  fails  in  all  its 
horrors,  compared  with  those  that  flow  from  intoxica- 
tion. We  shudder  at  the  ravages  of  pestilence,  and  fam- 
ine, but  they  sink  into  insignificance  when  compared  with 
the  sorrow  and  anguish  that  follow  in  the  train  of  this 
conqueror  of  fallen  humanity. 

I  see  before  me  many  distinguished  in  political,  social, 
and  business  life ;  and  some  of  them  I  fear  are  to-dav 
voluntarily  enrolled  in  the  great  army  of  moderate  drink- 
ers. When  you  appeal  to  them  to  give  the  force  of  their 
influence  and  example  to  the  prevention  of  the  evil,  their 
answer  is  that  they  have  strength  to  resist,  they  can  quit 
when  they  please.  Possibly  they  can,  but  before  you  all 
I  can  frankly  acknowledge,  from  what  I  have  seen  in 


N  U  M  B  i:  R    FIVE.  129 

public  and  private  life,  that  /  dave  not  touch  or  taste 
or  handle  the  wine  bowl.  You  say  you  are  strong.  I 
can  point  you  to  those  stronger  tenfold  over  than  you 
who  began  as  you  have,  and  who  lost  the  power  of  re- 
sistance before  they  knew  they  were  in  the  power  of 
the  tempter.  This  demon,  like  death,  seems  to  love  a 
shining  mark.  He  only  is  fortified  who  has  determined 
not  to  yield  to  the  first  temptation. 

There  is  but  one  class  whence  he  has  never  drawn  a 
victim.  That  class  has  defied  him,  and  will  to  the  end. 
It  is  we  who  stand,  God  helping  us,  with  our  feet  on 
this  rock  of  safety,  against  which  the  waves  may  dash, 
but  they  shall  dasii  in  vain.  I  implore  you  to  come  and 
stand  with  us.  I  plead  with  you  to  come,  for  I  believe 
that  all  mankind  are  my  brethren.  I  believe  in  the 
fatherhood  of  God  and  in  the  brotherhood  of  man.  And 
when  I  see  an  inebriate  reeling  along  the  streets  I  feel 
that,  though  debased  and  fallen,  he  is  my  brother  still, 
created  in  the  image  of  God,  destined  to  an  eternal  here- 
after ;  and  it  should  be  your  duty  and  mme  to  take  him 
by  the  hand  and  seek  to  place  his  feet  on  the  same  rock 
on  which  we  stand. 

That  is  what  gave  such  a  wonderful  triumph  to  the 
Washingtonians,  this  recognizing  the  duty  of  individual 
responsibility.  How  many  of  you  have  gone  to  your  fel- 
l()W-n)an  when  you  have  seen  him  on  the  shore  of  destruc- 
tion and  tried  to  save  him  ?  Not  one  !  Not  one !  How 
dare  you  on  your  knees  ask  God  to  bless  you  and  yours, 
when  you  have  not  thus  proved  that  you  love  your 
neighbor  as  yourself!  This  duty  should  be  impressed 
on  your  souls  i)y  your  ministers  in  tl  e  pulpit,  by  your 
writers  in  the  public  press.  jNIore  than  all  things  else  in 
the  land  we  need  a  temperance  revival.  Whom  would 
it  harm  ?     No  one. 

But  come  down  to  the  individual  home  of  the  man 
who  has  become  a  slave  to  this  demon.  Do  you  find 
hapi)iness  there?  Do  you  find  contentment,  prosperity? 
Ah,  no.     Do  you  find  the  wife's  cheek  lighting  up  with 

6* 


130  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

joy  as  her  husband  comes  home  when  the  shadows  length- 
en ?  Ah,  no  :  her  cheek  pales  at  the  step  of  him  who 
pledged  her  a  life  of  devotion  for  the  love  she  gave  to 
him.  All  things  are  warning  you  to  beware  of  yielding 
to  this  evil.  The  Scriptures  ;  the  men  reeling  in  their 
cups  ;  your  poor-houses,  your  prisons,  the  foi*saken  wives ; 
all  cry  "beware."  In  the  language  of  an  eminent  cham- 
pion of  temperance,  "  When  drink  can  easily  be  given 
up  by  you,  give  it  up  for  the  sake  of  your  example  on 
others ;  if  it  be  difficult  to  give  it  up,  give  it  up  for  your 
own  sake." 

Choose  you  this  day  whether  you  will  stand  with  us 
on  this  rock,  defying  the  snares,  and  evil,  and  misery, 
and  woe,  and  desolation  of  the  tempter,  or  whether,  pur- 
suing your  present  habit,  you  will  go  down  the  easy  de- 
scent, till  at  last,  dishonored  and  disgraced,  having  lost 
the  respect  of  others  and  your  own  self-respect,  you  end 
a  miserable  and  gloomy  life  by  a  home  in  the  tomb,  from 
which  there  is,  if  inspiration  be  true,  no  resurrection  that 
shall  take  you  to  a  better  land. 


KNOCKED   ABOUT.— Daniel  Connolly. 

Why  don't  I  imrlcf    Well,  sir,  will  you, 

Right  here  on  the  spot,  give  me  suthin'  to  do  ? 

Work  !  why,  .sir,  I  don't  want  no  more 

'N  a  chance  in  any  man's  shop  or  store ; 

That's  what  I'm  lookin'  for  every  day, 

But  thar  aint  no  jobs !  Well,  what  d'ye  say  ? 

Haint  got  nuthin'  at  present !     Just  so ; 

That's  how  it  always  is,  I  know  I 

Fellows  like  me  aint  wanted  much ; 
Folks  are  gen'rally  jubus  of  such  ; 
Thinks  they  aint  the  right  sort  o'  stuff- 
Blest  if  it  isn't  kind  o'  rough 
On  a  man  to  have  folks  hintin'  belief 
That  he  aint  to  be  trusted  mor'n  a  thief, 
When  p'raps  his  fingers  are  cleaner  far 
'N  them  o'  the  chaps  that  talk  so  are ! 


NUMBER  FIVE,  131 

Got  a  look  o'  the  sea  f     Well,  I  'xpect  that's  so ; 

Had  a  hankerin'  that  way  some  years  ago, 

And  run  ofl';  I  shipped  in  a  whaler  fust, 

And  gut  cast  away  ;  but  that  warnt  the  wust; 

Took  fire,  sir,  next  time,  we  did,  and — well, 

We  blazed  up  till  everything  standin'  fell ; 

And  then  me  and  Tom — my  mate— and  some  more 

Got  off,  with  a  notion  of  goin'  ashore. 

But  thar  warnt  no  shore  to  see  round  thar, 

So  we  drifted  and  drifted  everywhar 

For  a  week,  and  then  all  but  Tom  and  me 

Was  food  for  the  sharks  or  down  in  the  sea. 

But  we  prayed — me  and  Tom,  the  best  we  could— 

For  a  sail.     It  come,  and  at  last  we  stood 

On  old  arth  once  more,  and  the  captain  told 

Us  we  was  ashore  in  the  land  of  gold. 

Gold !    We  didn't  get  much.    But  we  struck 
For  the  mines,  of  course,  and  tried  our  luck. 
'Twarnt  bad  at  the  start,  but  things  went  wrong 
Pooty  soon,  for  one  night  thar  come  along, 
While  we  was  asleep,  some  red-skin  chaps, 
And  they  made  things  lively  round  thar — perhaps. 
Anyhow,  we  left  mighty  quick,  Tom  and  me, 
And  we  didn't  go  back — kind  o'  risky,  ye  see  \ 

By'n-by,  sir,  the  war  come  on,  and  then 
We  'listed.    Poor  Tom!     I  was  nigh  him  when 
It  all  happened.     He  looked  up  and  sez,  sez  he, 
"  Bill,  it's  come  to  partin'  'twixt  you  and  me, 
Old  chap.     I  haint  much  to  leave— here,  this  knife. 
Stand  to  your  colors,  Bill,  while  you  have  life! " 
That  was  all.     Yes,  got  wounded  myself,  sir,  here, 
And— I'm  pensioned  on  water  and  air  a  year ! 

It  aint  mu(;h  to  tliaiik  for  that  I'm  alive, 
Knockin'  about  Hke  this— what!  a  live? 
That's  suthin'  han'some,  now,  that  is.     I'm  blest 
If  thiir.'s  don't  quite  frequent  turn  out  for  the  best 
Artcr  all !     A  "V!  "  Hi  !  I.uck  !   It's  far  more! 
Mister,  I  kind  o'  liked  the  looks  o'  your  store. 
You're  a  trnmi).  sir,  a  reg— cli  !     Oh.  all  right! 
I'm  oil;  but  you  are,  sir,  a  trum]),  liunor  bright ! 


132  ONB     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

AT  THE  WINDOW— AN  EXTRACT. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Annie  Lee,  Philip  Ray  a'jd  Enocli  Arden  liveJ  in  a  village  by  the  sea.  Philip 
was  a  miller:  Enoch  a  sailor.  Both  loveu  Aunie  Lee,  bat  her  heart  was  given 
to  Enocli  and  tliey  two  were  weddod.  Reverses  came  to  Euoc  i,  so  he  shipped,  on  a 
Cliina-bound  vessel,  was  shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  an  uuiulialjited  island,  where 
for  many  years,  he  lived  alone,  "a  sliii)wrecked  tailor  wailing  forasiiil."  In 
the  meantime  Enoch  having  been  given  up  for  lost,  I'hilip  sought  and  won  the 
hand  of  his  early  love.  A  passing  vessel  released  Enoch  from  his  island  prison, 
and  returning  to  liis  native  village  he  took  up  liis  abode  at  a  little  inn,  without 
disclosing  his  identity.  Learning  that  his  wife  was  wedded  to  his  friend  and  for- 
mer rival,  one  night  he  softly  crept  towards  tlieir  house  to  look  upon  the  faces  of 
wife  and  children  whom  he  was  never  again  to  call  his  own.  He  saw  them  hap- 
py in  their  home-life,  and,  turning  away,  dwelt  in  the  village  until  a  year  had 
passed,  when  the  burden  of  life  becoming  too  heiivy  to  bear  he  confided  to  the 
mistress  of  the  inn  the  secret  he  had  so  faithfully  kejit  and  which  was  not  dis- 
closed until  after  his  deatli.  The  author  says: —  "So  passed  the  strong,  lieroic 
soul  away,  and  when  they  burn  d  him,  the  little  port  had  seldom  seen  a  coBtliei 
funeral." 

But  Enoch  yearned  to  .«ee  her  face  again  : 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  asain 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harassed  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evenino-  wlien  the  (hill  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  b.ill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  ; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  i)assage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  opened  on  the  waste, 
Flourished  a  little  garden,  square  and  walled, 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it. 
But  Enoch  shunned  ^he  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  w^all  behind  the  yew  ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  sliunned,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cu]>s  and  silver  on  the  burnished  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth ; 


NUMB&R   FIVK.  133 

And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 

Philip,  the  shghted  suitor  of  old  times, 

Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees; 

And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 

A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 

Fair-haired  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 

Dangleil  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 

To  tempt  the  babe,  who  reared  his  creasy  arms, 

Caught  at  and  ever  missed  it,  and  they  laughed. 

And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 

The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe. 

But  turning  now  and  then  to  SjK'ak  with  him, 

Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong, 

And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife,  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe — 
Hers,  yet  not  his— upon  the  father's  knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  hai)piness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful. 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lonl  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love, — 
Then  he,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  tluin  things  heard, 
Staggered  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry. 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

H«,  therefore,  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  giate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  opened  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  cliainber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  u]jon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 
Were  feeljle,  so  tiiat  falling  ])roiie  he  dug 
His  lingers  into  the  wet  eartli,  and  j/rayed: 
"Too  hard  to  l)ear!  wliy  did  they  take  me  thence? 
O  (i'><\  Almighty,  ]>l('ssed  Saviour,  tliou 
That  didst  uphold  me.  on  my  loiu-ly  isle, 
TJpiioM  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  littl(!  longer!  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 


134  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to  these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  siiould  betray  myself. 
Never :  no  father's  kiss  for  me, — the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thoucrhtand  nature  failed  a  little, 
And  he  lay  tranced  ;  but  wlien  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  Ids  solitary  home  again, 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
Astho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"Not  to  tell  "her,  never  to  let  her  know." 


THOUGHTS  OF  "ENOCH   ARDEN." 

I've  been  reading  "  Enoch  Arden," 

Where,  with  slow  and  measured  tread, 
He  approaches  through  the  garden, 

That  they  still  might  think  him  dead. 
He  would  view  his  children's  faces — 

If  they  her  resemblance  bore — 
And  observe  their  childish  graces 

Once  again,  and  then  no  more. 

He  would  see  if  time's  rough  fingers 
Had  not  many  a  wrinkle  traced — 
While  awaiting  him  she  lingered — 

On  that  dear,  familiar  face ; 
And  perhaps  he  hoped  such  feeling 
•   Might  have  left  its  traces  there, 
And  that  gray  was  deftly  stealing 
In  among  the  auburn  hair. 

For  the  greatest  earthly  gladness, 

Almost  like  tlie  joys  above, 
Which  we  crave,  even  to  madness, 

Is  the  love  of  those  we  love. 
If  gray  hair  and  pallid  faces 

Youthful  charms  completely  veil, 
In  our  eyes  they  seem  like  graces 

If  we  think  for  us  they  pale. 

When  he  turned,  and,  slowly  leaving, 
His  poor  heart  with  torment  wrung, 


i 


NUMBER   FIVE.  135 


In  his  hopeless  sorrow  grieving, 
He  escaped  a  sharper  pang ; 

For  he  knew  she  long  had  waited, 
Loth  even  with  his  name  to  part, — 

He  had  never  yet  been  liated, 
She  had  not  been  false  at  heart. 


Only  those  feel  all  of  sorrow 

Who  have  known  their  love  betrayed, 
And  for  strength  to  bear  the  morrow 

In  each  lonely  niglit- watch  prayed. 
Man  may  be  wronged,  and  still  be  cheerful. 

Face  storms  with  undaunted  breast, 
But  the  injury's  far  more  fearful 

From  a  hand  he  oft  has  pressed. 

When  of  loved  ones  death's  bereft  us, 

AV'e  can  soothe  the  tender  pain  ; 
For  this  hope  is  surely  left  us, — 

We  shall  meet  them  soon  again. 
We  can  go  where  they  are  sleeping, 

Keeping  grave  and  memory  green ; — 
When  for  their  folly  we  are  weeping. 

They  have  fixed  a  gulf  between. 

Ah  !  there's  many  an  Enoch  Arden 

In  this  hollow,  weary  life, 
Who  has  left  his  home's  sweet  garden 

Eden-like, — a  faithful  wife. 
Many  a  great  heart  thus  in  keeping 

She  has  doomed  to  hapless  fate, 
And  repents  with  life-long  weeping, 

Eut  too  late,  alas  !  too  late! 


MODULATION.-  Li.ovd. 


'Tis  not  enough  the  voice  be  .sound  and  clear, 
'Tis  modulation  that  must  charm  the  ear. 
When  de.sperate  heroes  grieve  with  tedious  moan, 
And  whine  tlieir  sorrows  in  a  see-saw  tone, 
The  .'<ame  soft  .sounds  of  unimpassioned  woes 
Can  only  make  the  yawning  hearers  doze. 
That  voice  all  modes  of  passion  can  exjjre.s.s, 
Which  mai'ks  the  proper  words  with  i)roper  stress. 

OfJ 


136  ONE   IIUNDKED   CHOICE   SELECTION'S 

But  none  emphatic  can  that  speaker  call, 
Who  hvy.s  an  equal  emphasis  on  all. 
Some,  o'er  the  tongue  the  labored  measures  roll, 
Slow  and  deliberate  as  the  parting  toll ; 
Point  every  stop,  mark  every  pause  so  strong, 
Their  words  like  stage  processions  stalk  along. 

All  affectation  but  creates  disgust ; 
And  e'en  in  speaking,  we  may  seem  too  just. 
In  vain  for  them  the  pleasing  measure  flows, 
Whose  recitation  runs  it  all  to  prose ; 
Repeating  what  the  poet  sets  not  down, 
The  verb  disjointing  from  its  favorite  noun. 
While  pause,  and  break,  and  repetition  join 
To  make  a  discord  in  each  tuneful  line. 

Some  placid  natures  fill  the  allotted  scene 
With  lifeless  drawls,  insipid  and  serene ; 
AVhile  others  thunder  every  couplet  o'er. 
And  almost  crack  j^our  ears  with  rant  and  roar. 
]More  nature  oft,  and  finer  strokes  are  shown 
In  the  low  whisper,  than  tempestuous  tone  ; 
And  Hamlet's  hollow  voice  and  fixed  amaze, 
More  powerful  terror  to  the  mind  conveys 
Than  he,  who,  swollen  with  imj)etuous  rage, 
Bullies  the  bulky  phantom  of  the  stage. 

He  who,  in  earnest,  studies  o'er  his  part, 

Will  find  true  nature  cling  about  his  heart. 

The  modes  of  grief  are  not  included  all 

In  the  white  handkerchief  and  mournful  drawl; 

A  single  look  more  marks  the  internal  woe. 

Than  all  the  windings  of  the  lengthened  oh! 

Up  to  the  face  the  quick  sensation  flies, 

And  darts  its  meaning  from  the  si)eaking  eyes: 

Love,  transport,  madness,  anger,  scorn,  despair. 

And  all  the  passions,  all  the  soul  is  there. 


MOUSE-HUNTING.— B.  P.  Shillaber. 

It  was  midnight,  deep  and  still,  in  the  mansion  of 
Mrs.  Partington, — as  it  was,  very  generally,  about  town, 
— on  a  cold  night  in  March.  So  profound  was  the  silence 
that  it  awakened  Mrs.  P.,  and  she  raised  herself  upon  her 
elbow  to  listen.     No  sound  greeted  her  ears,  save  the 


NUMBER   FIVE.  137 

tick  of  the  old  wooden  clock  iu  the  next  room,  which 
stood  there  in  the  dark,  like  an  old  crone,  whispering 
and  gibbering  to  itself.  Mrs.  Partington  relapsed  beneath 
the  folds  of  the  blankets,  and  had  one  eye  again  well- 
coaxed  towards  the  realm  of  dreams,  while  the  other  was 
holding  by  a  very  frail  tenure  upon  the  world  of  reality, 
when  her  ear  was  saluted  by  the  nibble  of  a  mouse,  di- 
rectly beneath  her  chamber  window,  and  the  mouse  was 
evidently  gnawing  her  chamber  carpet. 

Now,  if  there  is  an  animal  in  the  catalogue  of  creation 
that  she  dreads  and  detests,  it  is  a  mouse ;  and  she  has 
a  vague  and  indefinite  idea  that  rats  and  mice  were  made 
with  especial  regard  to  her  individual  torment.  As  she 
heard  the  sound  of  the  nibble  by  the  window,  she  arose 
again  upon  her  elbow,  and  cried  "  Shoo  !  Shoo  !  "  ener- 
getically, several  times.  The  sound  ceased,  and  she  fondly 
fancied  that  her  trouble  was  over.  Again  she  laid  her- 
self away  as  carefully  as  she  would  have  laid  eggs  at 
forty-five  cents  a  dozen,  when — nibble,  nibble,  nibble! 
she  once  more  heard  the  odious  sound  by  the  window. 
"Shoo!"  cried  the  old  lady  again,  at  the  same  time 
hurling  her  shoe  at  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  pro- 
ceeded, where  the  little  midnight  marauder  was  carrying 
on  his  depredations. 

A  light  burned  upon  the  hearth — she  couldn't  sleep 
without  a  light — and  she  strained  her  eyes  in  vain  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  her  tormentor  playing  about  amid  the  shad- 
ows of  the  room.  All  again  was  silent,  and  the  clock, 
giving  an  iidmonitoi-y  tremble,  struck  twelve,  INIidnight! 
and  Mrs.  Partington  counted  the  tintinabulous  knots  as 
they  ran  off  the  reel  of  time,  with  a  saddened  heart. 

Nibble,  nibble,  nibble  ! — again  that  sound.  The  old 
lady  sighed  as  she  hurled  the  other  shoe  at  her  invisible 
annoyance.  It  was  all  without  avail,  and  "shooing"  was 
bootless,  for  the  sound  catne  again  to  her  wnkci'ul  ear. 
At  this  point  her  patience  gave  out,  and,  conquering  her 
dread  of  the  cold,  she  arose  and  o|)ened  the  door  of  her 
room  that  led  to  a  corridor,  when,  taking  the  light  in  one 


138  ONE    HUNDKEU    C  HOICK    SELliCTIONS 

hand,  and  a  shoe  in  the  other,  she  made  the  circuit  of 
the  room,  and  explored  every  nook  and  cranny  in  which 
a  mouse  could  ensconce  himself.  She  looked  under  the 
bed,  and  under  the  old  chest  of  drawers,  and  under  the 
washstand,  and  "shooed"  until  she  could  "shoo"  no  more. 

The  reader's  own  imagination,  if  he  has  an  imagina- 
tion skilled  in  limning,  must  draw  the  picture  of  the  old 
lady  while  upon  this  exploring  expedition,  "accoutred  as 
she  was,"  in  search  of  the  ridiculous  mouse.  We  have 
our  own  opinion  upon  the  subject,  and  must  say, — with 
all  due  deference  to  the  years  and  virtues  of  Mrs.  P., 
and  with  all  regard  for  personal  attractions  very  striking 
in  one  of  her  years, — we  should  judge  that  she  cut  a  very 
queer  figure,  indeed. 

Satisfying  herself  that  the  mouse  must  have  left  the 
room,  she  closed  the  door,  deposited  the  light  upon  the 
hearth,  and  again  sought  repose.  How  gratefully  a  warm 
bed  feels,  when  exposure  to  the  night  air  has  chilled  us, 
as  w'e  crawl  to  its  enfolding  covert !  How  Ave  nestle 
down,  like  an  infant  by  its  mother's  bi-east,  and  own  no 
joy  superior  to  that  we  feel,  coveting  no  regal  luxury 
while  reveling  in  the  elysiura  of  feathers!  So  felt  Mrs. 
P.,  as  she  again  ensconced  herself  in  bed.  The  clock  in 
the  next  room  struck  one. 

She  was  again  near  the  attainment  of  the  state  when 
dreams  are  rife,  when,  close  by  her  chamber-door,  out- 
side, she  heard  that  hateful  nibble  renewed  which  had 
marred  her  peace  before.  With  a  groan  she  arose,  and, 
seizing  her  lamp,  she  opened  the  door,  and  had  the  sat- 
isfaction to  hear  the  mouse  drop,  step  by  step,  until  he 
reached  the  floor  below.  Convinced  that  she  was  now 
rid  of  him  for  the  night,  she  returned  to  bed,  and  ad- 
dressed herself  to  sleep.  The  room  grew  dim ;  in  the  wear- 
iness of  her  spirit,  the  chest  of  drawers  in  the  corner  was 
fast  losing  its  identity  and  becoming  something  else  ;  in  a 

moment  more nibble,  nibble,  nibble!  again  outside  of  the 

chamber  door,  as  the  clock  in  the  next  room  struck  two. 
Anger,  disappointment,  desperation,  fired  her  mind 


NUMBE  R   FIVE.  139 

with  a  new  determination.  Once  more  she  arose,  but 
this  time  she  put  on  a  shoe, — her  dexter  shoe.  Ominous 
movement !  It  is  said  that  when  a  Avoman  wets  her  fin- 
ger, fleas  had  better  flee.  The  star  of  that  mouse's  des- 
tiny was  setting,  and  was  now  near  the  horizon.  Slie 
opened  the  door  quickly,  and,  as  she  listened  a  moment, 
she  heard  him  drop  again  from  stair  to  stair,  on  a  speedy 
passage  down. 

The  entjy  below  was  closely  secured,  and  no  door  was 
open  to  admit  of  his  escape.  Tais  she  knew,  and  a  tri- 
umphant gleam  shot  athwart  her  features,  revealed  by 
the  rays  of  the  lamp.  She  went  slowly  down  the  stairs, 
until  she  arrived  at  the  floor  below,  where,  snugly  in  a 
corner,  with  his  little  bead-like  black  eyes  looking  up  at 
her  roguishly,  was  the  gnawer  of  her  carpet,  and  the  an- 
noyer  of  her  comfort.  She  moved  towards  him,  and  he, 
not  coveting  the  closer  acquaintance,  darted  by  her. 
She  pursued  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  entry,  and  again 
he  passed  by  her.^.  Again  and  again  she  pursued  him, 
with  no  better  success.  At  last,  when  in  most  doubt  as 
to  which  side  would  conquer.  Fortune,  perched  upon  the 
banister,  turned  the  scale  in  favor  of  Mrs.  P.  The  mouse, 
in  an  attempt  to  run  by  her,  presumed  too  much  upon 
former  success.  He  came  too  near  her  upraised  foot.  It 
fell  upon  his  musipilar  beauties,  like  an  avalanche  of  snow 
upon  a  new  tile,  and  he  was  dead  forever !  Mrs.  Part- 
ington gazed  upon  him  as  he  lay  before  her.  Though 
slie  was  glad  at  the  result,  she  could  but  sigh  at  the  ne- 
cessity which  impelled  the  violence  ;  but  for  which  the 
mouse  might  have  long  continued  a  blessing  to  the  socie- 
ty in  which  he  moved. 

Sluwly  iinii  sailly  slie  marrhofl  up  stairs, 

With  iier  sIhk;  all  siiUicil  luid  Rnry ; 
And  the  watcli,  wIkj  saw't  llinmgh  the  fruiit  door  squares, 

Tuld  us  this  jart  of  the  Ktory. 

That  mouse  did   not  trouble  Mrs.  Partington  again 
that  night,  and  the  old  clock  in  the  next  room  struck 
three  befjrc  sleep  again  visited  the  eyelids  of  the  relict, 
of  Corporal  Paul. 


140  ONE   HUNDRED    CHOICE  SELECTIOMS 


THE  RIVER. 

A  woman  stood  by  the  river ; 

At  night  by  the  brink  of  the  river; 
She  still  was  young,  and  she  had  been  fair, 
But  deep  on  her  brow  was  the  brand  of  care, 
And  rain-drops  fell  from  her  tresses  bare, 

Into  the  depths  of  the  river. 

Hold  her  back  from  tlie  river, 

Angels  of  grace !  from  the  river 
That  writhes  like  a  serpent  beneath  her  eyes. 
And  claims  to  whirl  her  along  as  its  prize. 

Away !  body  and  soul— forever. 

Count  her  not  with  the  victim  of  lies,  and  passion,  and  gold  ; 
Pity  we  have  for  the  fallen — she  is  but  hungry  and  cold  ; 
Think  of  her  not  as  a  human  moth,  scorched  in  ambition's 

lure ; 
She  is  no  heroine  of  a  romance,  only  one  of  the  poor ; 
Only  one  of  the  suftering  poor,  for  whom  no  tears  are  shed. 
Whose  life  is  a  sigh. 
Who  faint  and  die 
For  want  of  a  morsel  of  bread. 

Hold  her  back  from  the  river, 
Angels  of  grace,  from  the  river  1 

A  sound  like  a  wail 

Passed  into  the  gale 
That  rippled  the  tide  of  the  river. 

"  Cold,  black,  deep  ! 

In  thy  water's  icy  flow ; 

Cold,  black,  deep ! 

In  the  gurgling  stream  below. 
O  thou  deep  rusliing  river! 

Let  me  find  repose  in  thee. 
And  the  ills  of  my  life  would  flow  away, 

As  thy  waters  ebb  to  the  sea. 
There  is  peace  for  a  stricken  heart, 

For  a  life  without  pity  or  love  ; 
Lulled  to  rest  on  the  gold  bright  sands, 

JBy  the  murmuring  wave  above. 

"Cold,  black,  deep! 
Give  me  at  least  a  home  ; 


NUMBER   FIVE.  141 

■  Cold,  black,  deep ! 

Rock  me  to  sleep  with  thy  moau." 
Still  she  stood  by  the  river, 
Close  to  the  brink  of  the  river, 

When  the  city  was  still, 

And  the  night  was  chill. 
And  clouds,  like  the  wings  of  the  spirits  of  ill, 
^Vere  hiding  the  stars  from  the  river. 

Hold  her  back  from  the  river. 

Angels  of  grace!  from  the  river 
That  writhes  like  a  serpent  beneath  her  eyes. 
And  claims  to  whirl  her  along  as  its  prize 

Away  !  body  and  soul — forever. 

Count  her  not  as  a  rebel  against  the  Lord  Most  High, 
She  follows  not  the  coward's  creed  that  it  is  brave  to  die. 
Oh,  she  would  work  on  cheerfully  for  what  to  your  dogs  you 

give ; 
Grow  happy  and  old,  if  hunger  and  cold  did  not  make  it 

such  pain  to  live ! 

See  she  kneels  by  the  river. 

Gazes  on  high  from  the  river; 
And  the  hand  of  the  merciful  Lord  of  all 
Parted  aside  the  night's  black  pall. 
And  the  lights  of  the  hosts  of  heaven  fall 

Bright  on  the  glittering  river  I 

Rivet  her  gaze  on  the  river, 

Angels  of  grace,  on  the  river! 
A  sound  like  a  soul's  redeeming  prayer, 
Falls  hushed  and  low  on  the  morning  air, 

As  the  tide  flows  back  in  the  river. 

"Cold,  black,  deep! 
If  I  give  my  soul  to  thee, 

Cold,  black,  deep! 
For  the  dread  eternity, 
Have  I  the  hope  that  with  mortal  life 

Will  cease  immortal  pain  ? 
Have  I  no  hope  that  of  happiness  lost. 

Some  wreck  may  return  again  ? 

"0  deep  and  rushing  river, 

I  am  not  fit  to  die  ! 
Grace  on  my  soul  comes  streaming. 

As  the  light  on  thy  waves  from  on  high. 


142  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

There  is  a  home  for  the  stricken  heart, 
By  the  heavenly  throne  above  ; 

Ne'er  to  be  sought  at  my  own  weak  will ; 
But  won  by  the  Saviour's  love. 

"  Cold,  black,  deep  ! 
Flow  on  with  thy  ceaseless  moan, 

Cold,  black,  deep ! 
Glide  on  in  thy  course — alone." 


GOLDEN  SHOES. 

May  bought  golden  shoes  for  her  boy. 

Golden  leather  from  heel  to  toe, 
With  silver  tassel  to  tie  at  the  top. 

And  dainty  lining  as  white  as  snow. 
I  bought  a  pair  of  shoes  as  well 

For  the  restless  feet  of  a  little  lad, 
Common  and  coarse  and  iron  tipped, — 

The  best  I  could  for  the  sum  1  had. 

"  Golden,"  May  said,  "to  match  his  curls." 

I  never  saw  her  petted  boy  ; 
I  warrant  he  is  but  a  puny  elf, 

And  pink  and  white,  like  a  china  toy ; 
And  who  is  he,  that  he  should  walk 

All  shod  in  gold  on  the  king's  highway, 
Wliile  little  Fred,  with  a  king's  own  grace. 

Must  wear  rough  brogans  every  day  ? 

And  why  can  May  from  her  little  hand 

Fling  baubles  at  her  idol's  feet. 
While  I  can  hardly  shelter  Fred 

From  the  cruel  stones  of  the  broken  street  ? 
I  envy  not  her  silken  robe, 

Nor  the  jewels'  shine,  nor  the  handmaid's  care, 
But,  ah  !  to  give  what  I  cannot. 

This,  this  is  so  hard  to  bear. 

But  down  I'll  crush  this  bitter  thought, 
And  bear  no  grudge  to  pretty  May — 

Though  she  is  rich,  and  I  am  poor 
Since  we  were  girls  at  Clover  Bay — 

And  ask  the  Lord  to  guide  the  feet. 
So  painfully  and  coarsely  shod. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  143 

Till  they  are  fit  to  walk  the  street 
That  runs  hard  by  the  throne  of  God. 

"  Good-bye,  friend  Ellen  ;  "  "  Good-bye,  May  ; " 

What  dims  her  eyes  so  bright  and  blue, 
As  she  looks  at  the  rugged  shoes  askance? 

"  I  wish  my  boy  could  wear  these,  too, 
But  he  will  never  walk,  they  say." 

So  May,  with  a  lictle  sigh  has  gone, 
And  1  am  left  in  a  wondering  mood, 

To  think  of  my  wicked  thoughts  alone. 

It  needs  not  that  I  tell  you  how 

I  clasped  my  sturdy  rogue  that  night. 
And  thanked  the  God  who  gave  him  strength,       ' 

And  made  him  such  a  merry  wight ; 
Nor  envied  May  one  gift  she  held, 

If  with  it  I  must  also  choose 
That  sight  of  little  crippled  feet, 

Albeit  shod  in  golden  shoes. 


I 


\ 


THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON.— J.  W.  Savage. 

DeliTered  in  the  Legislature  of  New  York,  in  the  year  1845. 

I  earnestly  hope  that  this  resolution  will  be  adopted 
by  the  house,  without  a  disseuthig  vote.  ^  The  subject  is 
one  of  deep  interest  to  every  man  who  first  drew  his 
breath  on  American  soil.  Sir,  it  was  beautifully  said  of 
Washington,  that  "God  made  him  childless  that  tlie  na- 
tion might  call  him  father." 

Mount  Vernon  was  his  home:  it  is  now  his  grave.  How 
fitting,  then,  sir,  it  is  that  we,  his  children, should  be  the 
owners  of  the  homestead  and  of  our  father's  sepulchre. 
No  stranger's  money  should  buy  it,  and  no  stranger's 
hand  should  drive  the  ploughshare  over  ashes  sacred  to 
every  American.  No  mere  individual  is  worthy  to  be 
the  owner  of  a  spot  enriched  with  such  hallowed  memo- 
ries. The  mortal  remains  of  the  nation's  idol  should  not 
be  subject  to  the  whim,  caprice,  or  cupidity  of  any  man. 
These  memorials  are  national,  and  to  the  nation   they 


GO' 


144  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

should  belong,  aud  it  is  ihe  duty  of  every  citizen  to  guard 
them  from  violence  aud  dishonor. 

'--^Sir,  no  monument  has  ever  been  erected  over  the  grave 
of  Washington.  He  needs  none  but  that  which  rises  in 
majestic  grandeur  before  the  gaze  of  the  world,  in  the  ex- 
istence of  this  great  republic,  with  its  millions  of  people 
rejoicing  in  the  light  and  liberty  of  a  free  government. 
While  the  stars  and  stripes,  waving  above  every  ca^^ital, 
shall  symbolize  our  national  union,  will  any  ask  where 
is  the  monument  to  Washington  ?  I  believe,  sir,  that  his 
name  will  prove  more  lasting  than  marble  or  bras§^  AVheu 
every  structure  which  filial  love  and  gratitude  may  erect 
shall  have  crumbled  to  dust,  the  fame  of  our  patriot 
father  will  still  remain  the  themeof  stady  and  admiration. 

There  has  been  but  one  Washington,  and  God  in  His 
goodness  gave  him  to  us.  Let  us  cherish  his  dust,  and 
revere  his  memory.  Let  us  together  own  his  mansion 
and  tomb.  Let  the  youth  of  o'ur  nation  make  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  sacred  spot  and  slake  the  thirst  of  unhallowed 
ambition  at  the  well  where  Washington  was  wont  to 
draw;  and  when  patriotism  declines,  let  the  vestals  of 
liberty  rekindle  the  flame  at  the  fireside  of  the  nation's 
sire.  Thus,  sir,  may  we  do  much  to  keep  alive,  through 
successive  generations,  that  patriotic  fire  which  burns  in 
the  heart  of  every  true  American. 

Sir,  no  man  can  read  the  life  of  Washington  without 
rising  up  from  the  task  a  better  man,  nor  can  a  freeman 
step  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  ]\Iount  Vernon,  and 
not  feel  the  power  of  those  associations  which  environ 
him.  The  troubled  sea  of  passion  in  his  soul  subsides, 
and  he  seems  to  hear  a  voice  whispering  to  his  spirit, 
"  Peace,  be  still,  for  Washington  lies  here !  "  Who  could 
visit  the  farm  of  Washington  and  not  experience  a  new 
thrill  of  patriotism,  or  who,  without  a  new  incentive  to 
love  his  country,  could  ranrble  through  that  garden, 
stand  in  the  hall  where  heroes  of  the  revolution  were 
welcomed  and  refreshed,  sit  down  in  the  library  where 
Washington  studied  and  meditated,  and  behold  the  cham- 


NUMBER   FIVE.  145 

ber  in  which  he  slept  and  died  ?  Sir,  I  am  no  prophet. 
But  when,  from  such  sacred  memories  as  these,  I  turn  to 
view  the  opposite  picture,  the  veil  of  futurity  seems  to 
be  lifted^ 

I  will  supjDose  that  this  opportunity  is  unimproved. 
That  cherished  inheritance  which  with  characteristic  pa- 
triotism, the  family  of  Washington  now  offer  to  the  coun- 
try, is  forfeited  to  parsimony.  That  family  pass  away, 
and  with  it  the  last  hope  of  securing  this  peculiar  treas- 
ure. The  heritage  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  millions 
is  the  subject  of  speculation.  Mammon,  the  earth  ruling 
demon,  flaps  his  dark  wing  over  the  consecrated  spot  and 
dooms  it  to  its  most  accursed  uses.  It  becomes  the  resort 
of  the  idle, — a  den  of  gamblers  and  inebriates.  But  I 
forbear ;  I  can  pursue  this  picture  no  further.  If  such 
desecration  is  to  befall  the  home  and  the  grave  of  Wash- 
ington, then  let  the  curtain  fall  which  hides  the  future 
from  ray  view  ;    that  day  of  shame,  I  pray  not  to  see. 

It  needs  ho  prophet's  eye  to  scan,  along  the  line  of 
time,  the  majestic  outline  of  our  nation's  destiny,  when 
the  fruits  of  our  free  government  sihall  be  more  and  more 
developed,  until  this  vast  continent  shall  be  peopled  with 
freemen  from  sea  to  sea  ;  when  the  fame  of  the  nation 
shall  reach  the  farthest  islands  and  shores ;  when  our 
star  of  empire,  radiant  with  the  beams  of  liberty, 
shall  have  grown  to  such  magnitude  as  to  attract  the 
eyes  and  guide  the  steps  of  all  nations  ;  and  when  some 
queen  of  Sheba  shall  come  over  seas  and  continents  to 
behold  our  greatness,  and  see  the  happy  results  of  the 
wisdom  of  V/ashington.  Then,  sir.  Mount  Vernon  will 
be  sought,  and  thousands  now  unborn  will  wish  to  kiss 
the  earth  which  cradled,  and  now  covers  the  Father  of 
his  Countiy.  How  will  we  appear  in  that  millonial  day 
of  our  nation's  destiny,  if  it  shall  be  truly  recorded  that 
the  most  sacred  spot  which  God  committed  to  our  cus- 
tody, wjxs  thrown  away  a  sacrifice  to  parsimony,  or  some 
fashionable  fine-spun  theories,  with  which  true  patriotism 
has  no  felhjwshij)  ?     Will  not  every  American  blush  with 


146  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

shame,  and  wish  that  he  could  cover  from  the  gaze  of  na- 
tions so  dark  a  blot  in  the  page  of  our  history? 
/  Sir,  shall  no  spot  be  held  sacred  by  Americans  ?  Have 
we  no  reverence  for  the  symbols  of  departed  greatness  ? 
True  there  are  monuments  at  Bunker  Hill  and  Baltimore. 
We  have  here  and  there  a  national  memento.  The  cu- 
rious can  trace  the  crumbling  ramparts  and  the  remains 
of  hasty  breastworks,  behind  which  the  stout  hearts  of 
our  forefathers  beat  with  patriotic  zeal,  and  over  which 
they  dealt  dismay  and  death  to  our  enemies.  But,  sir, 
as  we  have  been  reminded  by  our  Governor,  these  me-- 
morials,  like  ourselves, are  fast  passing  away.  Let  us  then 
secure  this  honored  patrimony!  Let  Mount  Vernon  be 
the  perpetual  memento  of  our  country's  great  deliverance, 
and  let  the  reverence  with  which  it  is  regarded  be  the 
token  of  our  gratitude !  And  when,  in  ages  hence,  the 
banks  of  the  silvery  Potomac  shall  resound,  as  now,  with 
the  bell  of  passing  vessel,  uttering  its  tribute  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Washington,  and  the  flag  at  the  masthead  shall 
humbly  droop,  and  the  mariner  stand  uncovered  in  hon- 
or of  the  sacred  spot, — let  future  generations  learn  the 
lesson  of  gratitude  and  patriotism  which  these  tokens 
shall  daily  recite  at  Mount  Vernon. 


THE  PUZZLED  DUTCHMAN— Cuakles  Follkn  Adams.* 

I'm  a  broken-hearted  Deutscher 

Vot's  villed  mit  crief  und  shame: 
I  dells  you  vot  der  drouble  ish, — 

1  doesn't  know  my  name. 

You  dinks  dis  very  funny,  eh  ? 

Ven  3^ou  der  story  hear, 
You  vill  not  vonder  den  so  mooch, 

It  vas  so  shtrange  und  queer. 

Mein  moder  had  tw^o  little  twins, 
Dey  vas  me  und  mein  broder ; 

*AuUiurof  "  Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss,"  "  Dot  Babyofi  Mine,"  "  Mine  Katrine," 
"Motlier's  Doushnuts,"  and  other  excellent  dialect  recitations  in  subsequtnt  • 
Numbers  of  this  Series. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  147 

Ve  looks  so  ferry  mooch  alike, 
No  von  knew  vich  from  toder. 

Yon  ov  der  poys  vas  Yawcob, 

Und  Hans  der  oder's  name  ; 
But  den  it  makes  no  tifierent, 

Ve  both  got  called  der  same. 

Veil!  von  ov  us  got  tead — 

Yaw,  Mynheer,  dat  ish  so ! 
But  vedder  Hans  or  Yawcob, 

Mein  moder,  she  ton't  know. 

Und  so  I  am  in  droubles, 

I  gan't  git  droo  mein  hed 
Vedder  I'm  Han's  vot's  lifing, 

Or  Yawcob  vot  ish  tead ! 


PRAYER  AND  POTATOES.— Rkv.  J.  T.  Petiek. 

"  If  a  brother  or  sister  be  naked,  and  destitute  of  daily  food,  and  one  nf  jou 
say  unto  tlieui.  Depart  in  peace,  be  ye  wanned  and  filled  ;  notwithstanding  yo 
give  them  not  those  things  wliich  are  needful  to  the  body ;  wliat  doth  it  profit? 
[James  ii.  15-16.] 

An  old  lady  sat  in  her  old  arm-chair, 
With  wrinkled  visage  ami  disheveled  hair, 
And  pale  and  hunger-worn  features  ; 
For  days  and  for  weeks  her  only  fare, 

f  As  she  sat  there  in  her  old  arm-chair, 

r  Had  been  potatoes. 

>  But  now  they  were  gone  ;  of  bad  or  good. 


Not  one  was  left  for  the  old  lady's  food 

Of  those  potatoes ; 
And  she  sighed  and  said,  "What  shall  I  do? 
Where  shall  I  send,  and  to  whom  shall  I  go 

For  more  potatoes  ?  " 

And  she  thought  of  the  deacon  over  the  way. 
The  deacon  so  reaily  to  w(iislii{)  and  pray, 

Whose  cellar  was  full  of  jtotatoes, 
And  she  said  :  "  I  will  send  for  the  deacon  to  come  ; 
He'll  not  mind  much  to  give  me  some 

Of  such  a  store  of  ])otatoes." 

And  the  deacon  came  over  as  fast  as  he  could, 
Thinking  to  do  the  f)ld  lady  some  good, 
But  never  thouglitof  jjotatoes; 


148  ONE    HUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

He  asked  her  at  once  what  was  her  chief  want, 
And  she,  simple  soul,  expecting  a  grant, 
Immediately  answered,  "  Potatoes." 

But  the  deacon's  religion  didn't  lie  that  way ; 
He  was  more  accustomed  to  preach  and  to  pray 

Than  to  give  of  his  hoarded  potatoes ; 
So,  not  hearing,  of  course,  what  the  old  lady  said. 
He  rose  to  pray  with  uncovered  head. 

But  she  only  thought  of  potatoes. 

He  prayed  for  patience,  and  wisdom,  and  grace, 
But  when  he  prayed,  "Lord,  give  her  peace," 

She  audibly  sighed  "  Give  potatoes ;  " 
And  at  the  end  of  each  prayer  whicli  he  said. 
He  heard,  or  thought  that  he  heard  in  its  stead, 

The  same  request  for  potatoes. 

The  deacon  was  troubled  ;  knew  not  what  to  do  ; 
'Twas  very  embarrassing  to  have  her  act  so 

About  "those  carnal  potatoes." 
So,  ending  his  prayer,  he  started  for  home ; 
As  the  door  closed  behind  iiim,  he  heard  a  deep  groan, 

"  Oh,  give  to  the  hungry,  potatoes!  " 

And  that  groan  followed  him  all  tlie  way  liome; 
In  the  midst  of  the  night  it  haunted  his  room  — 

"  Oh,  give  to  the  hungry,  potatoes !  " 
He  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  arose  and  dressed ; 
From  his  well-filled  cellar  taking  in  haste 

A  bag  of  his  best  potatoes. 

Again  he  went  to  the  widow's  lone  hut; 
Her  sleepless  eyes  she  had  not  shut ; 
But  there  she  sat  in  that  old  arm-chair, 
AVith  the  same  wan  features,  the  same  sad  air, 
And,  entering  in,  he  poured  c  n  the  floor 
A  bushel  or  more  from  his  goodly  store 
Of  choicest  potatoes. 

The  widow's  cup  was  running  o'er, 

Her  face  was  haggard  and  wan  no  more. 

"  Now,"  said  the  deacon,  "  shall  we  pray  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  widow,  "now  you  may." 

And  he  kneeled  him  down  on  the  sanded  floor, 

Where  he  had  poured  his  goodly  store. 


NUMBER    FIVE.  149 

And  such  a  prayer  the  deacon  prayed 
As  never  before  his  hps  essayed ; 
No  longer  embarrassed,  but  free  and  full, 
He  poured  out  the  voice  of  a  liberal  soul, 
And  the  widow  responded  aloud  "amen  ! " 
But  spake  no  more  of  potatoes. 

And  would  you,  who  hear  this  simple  tale. 
Pray  for  the  poor,  and  praying,  "prevail?" 
Then  preface  your  prayers  with  alms  and  good  deeds  ; 
Search  out  the  poor,  their  wants  and  their  needs ; 
Pray  for  peace,  and  grace,  and  spiritual  food, 
For  wisdom  and  guidance,— for  all  these  are  good, — 
But  don't  J'urgd  the  potatoes. 


CATILINE'S  LAST  HARANGUE  TO  HIS  ARMY.-Croly. 

Brave  comrades  !  all  is  ruined  !  I  disdain 
To  hide  the  truth  from  you.    The  die  is  thrown! 
And  now,  let  each  that  wishes  for  long  life 
Put  up  his  sword,  and  kneel  for  peace  to  Rome. 
Ye  are  all  free  to  go.     What !  no  man  stirs ! 
Not  one ! — a  soldier's  spirit  in  you  all  ? 
Give  me  your  hands!     (This  moisture  in  my  eyes 
Is  womanish— 'twill  pass.)     My  noble  hearts  ! 
Well  have  you  chosen  to  die!     For,  in  my  mind, 
The  grave  is  better  than  o'erburthened  life ; 
Better  the  quick  release  of  glorious  wounds 
Tlian  the  eternal  taunts  of  galling  tongues; 
Better  the  spear-head  quivering  in  the  heart 
Than  daily  struggle  against  Fortune's  curse  ; 
Better,  in  manhood's  muscle  and  high  blood, 
To  leap  the  gulf  than  totter  to  its  edge 
In  poverty,  dull  pain,  and  base  decay. 
Once  more,  I  say, — are  ye  resolved? 
Then  each  man  to  his  tent,  and  take  the  arms 
That  he  would  love  to  die  in,  for,  this  hour. 
We  storm  the  consul's  canq).     A  last  farewell ! 
When  next  we  meet,  we'll  have  no  time  to  look 
How  jiarting  clouds  a  soldier's  countenance. 
Few  as  we  are,  we'll  rouse  them  with  a  jical 
That  shall  shake  Rome ! 
Now  to  your  cohorts'  heads!  the  word'a—Reveugc. 


150  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

I  sat  an  hour  to-day,  John, 

Beside  the  old  brook  stream 
Where  we  were  scbool-boys  in  old  time, 

When  manhood  was  a  dream ; 
The  brook  is  choked  with  fallen  leaves, 

The  pond  is  dried  away, 
I  scarce  believe  that  you  would  know 

The  dear  old  place  to-day. 

The  school-house  is  no  more,  John, 

Beneath  our  locust  trees  ; 
The  wild  rose  by  the  window's  side 

No  more  waves  in  the  breeze  ; 
The  scattered  stones  look  desolate, 

The  sod  they  rested  on 
Has  been  plouizhed  up  by  stranger  hands 

Since  you  and  I  were  gone. 

The  chestnut-tree  is  dead,  John, 

And,  what  is  sadder  now. 
The  grape-vine  of  that  same  old  swing 

Hangs  on  the  withered  bough ; 
I  read  our  names  upon  the  bark, 

And  found  the  ])ebbles  rare 
Laid  up  beneath  the  hollow  side, 

As  we  had  piled  them  there. 

Beneath  the  grass-grown  bank,  John, 

I  looked  for  our  old  spring 
That  bubbled  down  the  alder  path 

Three  paces  from  the  swing ; 
The  rushes  grow  upon  the  brink, 

The  pool  is  black  and  bare, 
And  not  a  foot  for  many  a  day, 

It  seems  has  trodden  there. 

I  took  the  old  blind  road,  John, 

That  wandered  up  the  hill ; 
'Tis  darker  than  it  used  to  be, 

And  seems  so  lone  and  still; 
The  birds  yet  sing  upon  the  boughs 

Where  once  the  sweet  grapes  hung, 
But  not  a  voice  of  human  kind 

Where  all  our  voices  rung. 


NUMBER   FIVK.  151 

I  sat  rae  on  the  fence,  John, 

That  hes  as  in  old  time — 
The  same  half  panel  in  the  path 

We  used  so  oft  to  climb— 
And  thought  how,  o'er  the  bars  of  life, 

Our  playmates  had  passed  on, 
And  left  me  counting  on  the  spot 

The  faces  that  were  gone. 


PUTTING  UP  STOVES. 

The  first  step  a  person  takes  is  to  put  on  a  very  old 
and  ragged  coat,  under  the  impression  that  when  he  gets 
his  moutli  full  of  plaster  it  will  keep  his  shirt-bosom  clean. 
Next  he  gets  his  hands  inside  the  place  where  the  pipe 
ought  to  go,  and  blacks  his  fingers,  aiid  then  he  carefully 
makes  a  black  mark  down  the  side  of  his  nose.  It  is 
impossible  to  make  any  headway  in  doing  this  work,  un- 
til this  mark  is  made.  Having  got  his  face  properly 
marked,  the  victim  is  ready  to  begin  the  ceremony.  The 
head  of  the  family — who  is  the  big  goose  of  the  sacrifice- 
grasps  one  side  of  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  and  his  wife 
and  the  hired  girl  take  hold  of  the  other  side.  In  this 
way  the  load  is  started  from  the  woodshed  toward  the 
parlor.  Going  through  the  door,  the  head  of  the  family 
will  carefully  swing  his  side  of  the  stove  around,  and  jam 
his  thumb-nail  against  the  door-post.  This  part  of  the 
ceremony  is  never  omitted.  Having  got  the  stove  com- 
fortably in  place,  the  next  thing  is  to  find  the  legs.  Two 
of  them  are  left  inside  the  stove  since  the  spring  before ; 
the  other  two  must  be  hunted  after  for  twenty-five  min- 
utes. They  are  usually  found  under  the  coal.  Then  the 
head  of  the  family  holds  uj)  one  side  of  the  stove  while 
his  wife  puts  two  of  the  legs  in  place,  and  next  he  holds 
up  the  other  side  while  the  other  two  are  fixed,  and  one 
of  the  first  two  falls  out.  By  the  lime  the  stove  is  on  its 
legs  he  gets  reckless,  and  takes  off  his  old  coat,  regard- 
less of  his  linen.  Then  he  goes  off  for  the  pi])0,  and  gets 
a  cinder  in  his  eye.     It  don't  make  any  difference  how 


152  ONE    HUNDEED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

well  the  pipe  was  put  up  last  year,  it  will  be  found  a  lit- 
tle too  short  or  a  little  too  loug.  The  head  of  the  fam- 
ily jams  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and,  taking  a  pipe  under 
each  arm,  goes  to  the  tin-shop  to  have  it  fixed.  When 
he  gets  back  he  steps  upon  one  of  the  best  parlor  chairs 
to  see  if  the  pipe  fits,  and  his  wife  makes  him  get  down 
for  fear  he  will  scratch  the  varnish  ofi'  the  chair  with 
the  nails  in  his  boot-heel.  In  getting  down  he  will  surely 
step  on  the  cat,  and  may  thank  his  stars  if  it  is  not  the 
baby.  Then  he  gets  an  old  chair,  and  climbs  up  to  the 
chimney  again,  to  find  that  in  cutting  the  pipe  off,  the 
end  has  been  left  too  big  for  the  hole  in  the  chimney. 
So  he  goes  to  the  woodshed,  and  splits  on  one  side  of  the 
end  of  the  pipe  with  an  old  axe,  and  squeezes  it  in  his 
hands  to  make  it  smaller.  Finally  he  gets  the  pipe  in 
sliape,  and  finds  that  the  stove  does  not  stand  true.  Then 
himself  and  wife  and  the  hired  g-irl  move  the  stove  to  the 
left,  and  the  legs  fall  out  again.  The  next  move  is  to 
the  right.  More  difliculty  with  the  legs.  Moved  to  the 
front  a  little.  Elbow  not  even  with  the  hole  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  he  goes  to  the  woodshed  after  some  little  blocks^ 
While  putting  the  blocks  under  the  legs,  the  pipe  comes 
out  of  the  chimney.  That  remedied,  the  elbow  keeps 
tipping  over,  to  the  great  alarm  of  his  wife.  He  then 
gets  the  dinner-table  out,  puts  the  old  chair  on  it,  gets 
his  wife  to  hold  the  chair,  and  balances  himself  on  it  to 
drive  some  nails  into  the  ceiling.  Drops  the  hammer 
on  his  wife's  head.  At  last  he  gets  the  nails  driven, 
makes  a  wire-swing  to  hold  the  pipe,  hammers  a  little 
here,  pulls  a  little  there,  takes  a  long  breath,  and  an- 
nounces the  ceremony  completed. 

Job  never  put  up  any  stoves.     It  would  have  ruined 
his  reputation  if  he  had. 


DRAFTED.— Miis.  H.  L.  Bostwick. 

My  son  !     What  I   Drafted?    IMy  Harry  !     Why,  man,  he's  a 

boy  at  his  books; 
No  taller,  I'm  sure,  than  your  Annie — as  delicate,  too,  in  his 

looks. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  153 

Why,  it  seems  but  a  day  since  he  helped  me,  girl-like,  in  my 

kitchen  at  tasks. 
He  drafted !   Great  God,  can  it  be  that  our  President  knows 

wliat  he  asks  ? 

He  never  could  •wrestle,  this  boy,  though  in  spirit  as  brave 

as  the  best ; 
Narrow-chested,  a  little,  you  notice,  like  him  who  has  long 

been  at  rest. 
Too  slender  for  over-much  study — why,  bis  master  has  made 

him  to-day 
Go  out  with  his  ball  on  the  common,  and  you've  drafted  a 

chdd  at  his  play! 

Not  a  patriot  ?  Fie !  Did  I  whimper  when  Robert  stood  up 
with  his  gun, 

And  the  hero-blood  chafed  in  his  forehead,  the  evening  we 
heard  of  Bull  Run  ? 

Pointing  his  finger  at  Harry,  but  turning  his  eyes  to  the  wall, 

"  There's  a  stall'  growimr  up  for  vour  age,  mother,"  said  Rob- 
ert, "  if  I  am  to  fall." 

Eighteen  ?  Oh,  I  know !  And  yet  narrowly ;  just  a  wee  babe 
on  the  day 

When  his  father  got  up  from  a  sick-bed  and  cast  his  last  bal- 
lot for  C!lay ; 

Proud  of  his  boy  and  his  ticket, 'said  he,  "A  new  morsel  of 
fame 

We'll  lay  on  the  candidate's  altar"— and  christened  the  child 
with  his  nauje. 

Oh,  what  have  I  done,  a  weak  woman,  in  what  have  I  med- 
dled with  harm— 

Troublhig  only  my  God  for  the  sunshine  and  rain  on  my 
rough  little  farm — 

That  my  ploughshares  are  beaten  to  swords,  and  whetted 
before  my  eyes, 

That  my  tears  must  cleanse  a  foul  nation,  my  lamb  be  a  sac- 
rifice? 

Oh,  'tis  true  there's  a  country  to  save,  man,  and  'tis  true  there 

is  no  appeal, 
But  did  God  see  my  boy's  name  lying  the  uppermost  one  in 

the  wheel? 
Five  stalwart  sons  has  my  neighbor,  and  never  the  lot  upon 

one ; 
Are  these  things  Fortune's  caiirices,  or  is  it  God's  will  that 

is  done? 

Are  the  others  too  precious  for  resting  M'here  Robert  is  tak- 
ing liis  r(;st, 

With  the  pictureil  face  of  young  Annie  lying  over  the  rent 
in  liLs  breast? 

1* 


154  ONE    HUNDRED    CTTOICK   SELECTIONS 

Too  tender  for  parting  with  sweethearts  ?  Too  fair  to  be  crip- 
pled or  scarred  ? 

My  boy  !  Thank  God  for  these  tears — I  was  growing  so  bit- 
ter and  hard  I 


Now  read  me  a  page  in  the  book,  Harry,  that  goes  in  your 
knapsack  to-night. 

Of  the  eye  that  sees  wlien  the  sparrow  grows  weary  and  fal- 
ters in  flight ; 

Talk  of  something  that's  nobler  than  living,  of  a  love  that  is 
higher  than  mine. 

And  faith  which  has  planted  its  banner  where  the  heavenly 
camp-fires  shine. 

Talk  of  something  that  watches  us  softly,  as  the  shadows 
glide  down  in  the  yard  ; 

That  shall  go  with  my  soldier  to  battle,  and  stand  with  my 
picket  on  guard. 

Spirits  of  loving  and  lost  ones, — watch  softly  with  Harry  to- 
night, 

For  to-morrow  he  goes  forth  to  battle,  to  arm  him  for  free- 
dom and  right ! 


THE  BLUE   AND  THE   GRAY.— F.  M.  Finch. 

The  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  animated  by  noble  sentiments,  have 
Bhown  tliemsolves  impartial  iu  their  ulleriugs  made  to  the  memory  of  tlio  dead. 
They  strewed  flowers  alike  on  the  graves  of  Confederate  and  National  of  soldiers. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river. 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  lie  the  ranks  of  the  dead  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Under  the  one,  the  blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  gray. 

These  in  the  robinga  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  gray. 


NUMBER   FIVE. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  tlowers, 

Alike'for  the  friend  and  the  foe  :— 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  tlie  judgment  day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender. 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  lield  of  grain. 
With  an  equal  murmur,  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  : — 
Under  tlie  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  blue. 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding. 
The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 
In  tlie  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  blue. 
Under  the  garlands,  the  gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever. 
Or  tlie  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banisli  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laun;!  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  tjie  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  jud'.nnent  day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  tlie  blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  ;rray. 


155 


156  ONE     nUNDRKD    CIIOICB    SELECTIONS 

PUBLIC  VIRTUE.— Henry  Clay. 

I  hope,  that  in  all  that  relates  to  personal  firuniess,  all 
that  concerns  a  just  appreciation  of  the  insignificance  of 
human  life, — whatever  may  be  attempted  to  threaten  or 
alarm  a  soul  not  easily  swayed  by  opposition,  or  awed 
or  intimidated  by  menace, — a  stout  heart  and  a  steady 
eye,  that  can  survey,  unmoved  and  undaunted,  any  mere 
personal  perils  that  assail  this  poor,  transient,  perishing 
frame,  1  may,  without  disparagement,  compare  w  ith  other 

men. 

But  there  is  a  sort  of  courage,  which,  I  frankly  con- 
fess it,  I  do  not  possess, — a  bc^^ldness  to  which  I  dare  not 
aspire,  a  valor  which  I  cannot  covet.     I  cannot  lay  my- 
self down  in  the  way  of  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  my 
country.     That  I  cannot,  I  have  not  the  courage  to  do. 
I  cannot  interpose  the  power  with   which  I  may  be  in- 
vested— a  power  conferred,  not  for  my  personal  benefit, 
nor  for  my  aggrandizement,  but  for  my  country's  good-- 
to  check  her  onward  march  to  greatness  and  glory.     I 
have  not  courage  enough.     I  am  too  cowardly  for  that. 
I  would  not,  I  dare  not,  in  the  exercise  of  such  a  trust, 
lie  down,  and  place  my  body  across  the  path  that  leads 
my  country  to  prosperity  and  happiness.     This  is  a  sort 
of  courage  widely  different  from  that  which  a  man  may 
display  in  his   private   conduct  and   personal   relations. 
Personal  or  private  courage  is  totally  distinct  from  that 
higher  and  nobler  courage  which  prompts  the  patriot  to 
offer  himself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  his  country's  good. 
Apprehensions  of  the  imputation  of  want  of  firmness 
sometimes  impel  us  to  perform  rash   and   inconsiderate 
acts.     It  is  the  greatest  courage  to  be  able  to  bear  the 
imputation  of  the  want  of  courage.     But  pride,  vanity, 
egotism,  so  unamiable  and  offensive  in  private  life,  are 
vices  which  partake  of  the   character  of  crimes  in   the 
conduct  of  public  affairs.   The  unfortunate  victim  of  these 
passions  cannot  see  beyond  the  little,  petty,  contempti- 
ble circle  of  his  own  pei-sonal  interests.    All  his  thoughts 


NUMBER   FIVE.  157 

are  withdrawn  from  his  country,  and  concentrated  on  his 
consistency,  his  firmness, — himself. 

The  high,  the  exalted,  the  sublime  emotions  of  a  pa- 
triotism, which,  soaring  toward  heaven,  rises  far  above 
all  mean,  low,  or  selfish  things,  and  is  absorbed  by  one 
soul-transporting  thought  of  the  good  and  the  glory  of 
one's  country,  are  never  felt  in  his  impeneti-able  bosom. 
That  patriotism,  which,  catching  its  inspiration  from  the 
immortal  God,  and  leaving  at  an  immeasurable  distance 
below  all  lesser,  groveling,  personal  interests  and  feelings, 
animates  and  prompts  to  deeds  of  self-sacrifice,  of  valor, 
of  devotion,  and  of  death  itself, — that  is  public  virtue ; 
that  is  the  noblest,  the  sublimest,  of  all  public  virtues ! 


HOW  BETSEY  AND  I  MADE  UP.*— Will  Cakleton. 

Give  us  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer ;  how  do  you  do  to-day? 
You  drew  up  that  paper — I  s'pose  you  M'ant  your  pay. 
Don't  cut  down  your  figures ;  make  it  an  X  or  a  V  ; 
For  that  'ere  written  agreement  was  just  tlie  makin'  of  me. 

Goin'  home  that  evenin'  I  tell  you  I  w  as  blue, 
Thinkin'  of  all  my  troubles,  and  what  I  was  goin'  to  do; 
And  if  my  bosses  liadn't  been  the  steadiest  team  alive 
They'd  've  tipped  me  over,  certain,  for  I  couldn't  see  where 
to  drive. 

No — for  I  was  laborin'  under  a  lioavy  load  ; 
No — for  I  was  travelin'  an  entirely  dilFerent  road; 
For  I  was  a-tracin'  over  the  patli  of  our  lives  ag'in, 
And  seein'  where  we  missed  the  way,  and  where  we  might 
have  been. 

And  many  a  corner  we'd  turned  that  just  to  a  quarrel  led. 
When  I  ought  to  've  held  my  temper,  and  driven  straight 

ahead  ; 
And  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  these  memories 

came, 
An<l  the  more  I  struck  the  opinion  that  I  was  the  most  to 

blame. 

And  tilings  T  Iiad  long  forgotten  kept  risin'  in  my  mind, 
Of  little  inattcrsix'twivt  ns,  wlierc  I'.ctsey  was  good  and  kind; 

*Kruiii  'Kariii  Ualluiirt,"  l>y  {(eriiiisMMii.     '"  liftBey  aud  1  aro  Out,"  is  ill  No.  4 
of  tliiu  ScTie«. 


158  ONE     HUNDRED     CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  these  things  flashed  all  through  me,  as  you  know  things 

sometimes  will 
"When  a   feller's  alone  in  the  darkness,  and   everything  is 

still. 

"  But,"  says  I,  "we're  too  far  along  to  take  another  track, 
And  when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plough  I  do  not  oft  turn 

hack  ; 
And  'taint  an  uncommon  thing  now  for  couples  to  smash  in 

two ;  " 
And  so  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  vowed  I'd  see  it  through. 

When  I  come  in  sight  o'  the  house  'twas  some' at  in  the  night, 
And  just  as  I  turned  a  hill-top  I  see  the  kitchen  light; 
Which  often  a  han'some  pictur'  to  a  hungry  person  makes. 
But  it  don't  interest  a  feller  much  that's  goin'  to  pull  up 
stakes. 

And  when  I  went  in  tlie  house  the  tahle  was  set  for  me — 

As  good  a  suppei''s  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  want  to  see  ; 

And  I  crammed  the  agreement  down  my  pocket  as  well  as 

I  could, 
And  fell  to  eatin'  my  victuals,  which  somehow  didn't  taste 

good. 

And  Betsey,  she  pretended  to  look  about  the  house, 

But  she  w^itched  my  side  coat  jjocket  like  a  cat  would  watch 

a  muuse  ; 
And  then  she  went  to  foolin'  a  little  with  her  cup, 
And  intently  readin'  a  newspaper, a-holdin'  it  wrong  side  up. 

And  when  I'd  done  my  supper  I  drawed  the  agreement  out, 
And  give  it  to  her  without  a  word,  for  she  knowed  what  'twas 

about ; 
And  then  I  hummed  a  little  tune,  but  now  and  then  a  note 
Was  bu'sted  by  some  animal  that  hopped  up  in  my  throat. 

Then  Betsey,  she  got  her  specs  from  off  the  mantel-shelf, 
And  read  the  article  over  quite  softly  to  herself; 
Read  it  by  little  and  little,  for  her  eyes  is  gettin'  old, 
And  lawyers'  writin'  aint  no  print,  especially  when  it's  cold. 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm  a  touch, 

And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  'lowin'  her  too  much  ; 

But  when  she  was  through  she  went  for  me,  her  face  a- 

streamin'  with  tears. 
And  kissed  me  for  the  first  time  in  over  twenty  years. 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think,  sir, — I  didn't  come  to  in- 
quire,— 
But  I  picked  up  that  agreement  and  stuffed  it  in  the  fire ; 


NUMBER   FIVE.  159 

And  I  told  her  we'd  bury  the  hatchet  alongside  of  the  cow; 
And  we  struck  an  agreement  never  to  have  another  row. 

And  I  told  her  in  the  future  I  wouldn't  speak  cross  or  rash 
If  half  the  crockery  in  the  house  was  broken  all  to  smash  ; 
And  she  said,  in  regard  to  heaven,  we'd  try  and  learn  its  worth 
By  startin'  a  branch  establishment  and  runnin'  it  here  on 
earth. 

And  so  we  sat  a-talkin'  three-quarters  of  the  night, 

And  opened  our  hearts  to  each  other  until  they  both  grew 

light ; 
And  the  days  when  I  was  winnin'  her  away  from  so  many 

men 
Was  nothin'  to  that  evenin'  I  courted  her  over  again. 

Next  mornin'  an  ancient  virgin  took  pains  to  call  on  us, 
Her  lamp  all  trimmed  anda-burnin'  to  kindle  another  fuss; 
But  when  she  w"ent  to  pryin'  and  opeuin'  of  old  sores, 
My  Betsey  rose  politely  and  sliovved  her  out-of-doors. 

Since  then  I  don't  deny  but  there's  been  a  word  or  two  ; 
But  we've  got  our  eyes  wide  open,  and  know  just  what  to  do ; 
When  one  speaks  cross  the  other  just  meets  it  with  a  laugh, 
And  the  first  one's  ready  to  give  up  considerable  more  than 
half. 

Maybe  you'll  think  me  soft,  sir,  a-talking  in  this  style. 

But  somehow  it  does  me  lots  of  good  to  tell  it  once  in  a 

while ; 
And  I  do  it  for  a  compliment, — 'tis  so  that  you  can  see 
That  that  there  written  agreement  of  yours  was  just  the 

makin'  of  me. 

So  make  out  your  bill,  Mr.  Lawyer ;  don't  stoji  short  of  an  X ; 
Make  it  mure  if  you  want  to,  for  I  have  got  the  checks  ; 
I'm  richer  than  a  National  Bank,  with  all  its  treasures  told, 
For  I've  got  a  wife  at  home  now  that's  worth  Ler  weight  in 
gold. 


ONE  NIGHT  WITH   GIN. 

I'll  take  some  sugar  and  gin,  if  you  please  ; 
I've  a  hacking  cough  i)erhaps  'twill  ease  ; 
Exposed  myself  yesterday  ;  caught  a  severe  cold, — 
And  something  warm  for  it  's  gf>od,  I  am  told. 

Some  say  it's  injurious;  and  no  doubt  it  is 

To  men  who  can't  drink  and  attend  to  their  biz  , 

IIH 


160  ONE    HUNHBEn    C  HOICK    SELKCTIONS. 

1  have  my  opinion  of  men  who  cannot 
Drink  now  and  then  without  being  a  sot; 

Wasting  their  lives,  stunting  their  brains, 
Binding  their  families  in  poverty's  cliains ; 
Seeking  a  bed  in  the  gutter,  like  swine  ; 
Forgetting  they're  human  for  whisky  and  wine. 

But  of  course  you  don't  sell  to  that  class  of  men  ; 
Don't  blame  you — correct — there's  nothing  in  them; 
They're  a  damage  to  trade  ;  they  injure  your  bar 
More  than  their  purses  contribute,  by  far. 

Another  glass,  if  you  please  ;— that's  excellent  gin. 

My  cough,  I  think,'s  better  than  when  I  came  in ; 

Import  this  yourself?     From  Holland,  you  say? 

Like  your  taste  for  pure  drinks.   Here's  a  V ;  take  your  pay. 

By  the  Good  Templars  I'm  annoyed  and  perplexed, 
Coaxed  to  join  their  society  until  I  am  vexed, — 
A  piece  of  absurdity  too  foreign  to  think 
That  one  can't  indulge  in  a  good  social  drink. 

Over  myself  I  know  I've  control, 

I  can  sip  now  and  then  from  the  rich  flowing  bowl, 

Drink  or  not  drink,  do  either  with  ease— 

What  a  pity  all  men  can't  do  as  they  please ! 

Have  a  drink,  did  you  say  ?    Thank  you,  here's  luckl 
That's  the  genuine  article,  no  common  truck. 
When  I  start,  prepare  me  a  flask  of  that  old, 
For  I'm  certain  it's  helping  my  terrible  cold. 

So  fill  up  the  glasses,  and  now  drink  with  me, 
I've  plenty  of  money,  if  you  don't  believe  it,  see! 
Look  at  these  iifties,  these  twenties,  this  ten. 
Here's  to  you,  drink  hearty,  and— (hie) — fill  'em  again. 

Stranger — (hie)— I'm  getting  tired  on  my  feet, 
So  let's  fill  up  and  drink— (hie) — and  then  find  a  seat. 
(Hie) — I  like  your  appearance— (hie) — can  see  in  your  face 
That  confidence  in  you  is  never  misplaced. 

With  your  permission  I'll — (hie) — rest  here  a  spell. 
For,  mister— (hic)~the  fact  is  I'm  not — (hie) — feeling  well. 
Guess  you  may  give  me— (hie) — a  glass  of  that  best; 
I  think  it's  first-rate  for  a  cold — (hie) — in  the  chest. 

Heavy  eyes,  heavy  heart,  thirst)^  and  mad  ; 
The  gin  is  all  gone,  the  head's  feeling  bad  ; 


NUMBER    FIVE.  161 

The  tongue's  dry  and  parched  ;  he  calls  for  a  drink 
To  waken  his  wits  and  to  help  him  to  think; 

Then  looks  for  his  friend,  the  one  of  last  night, 

So  winning  and  pleasant,  so  kind  and  polite; 

But  he's  gone,  and  a  rough-looking  man's  in  his  place, 

With  a  dark,  evil  eye,  and  a  coarse-bearded  face. 

He's  told  that  his  friend,  so  genial  and  witty, 
Receiving  a  dispatch,  has  just  left  the  city. 
The  wretched  young  man  then  feels  for  his  purse, 
Only  to  ejaculate  "  Gone !  "  with  a  curse. 

He  appeals  to  the  bar,  charges  robbery,  theft. 
Calls  for  the  man  he's  informed  has  just  left. 
Then  gently  reminded  they  do  not  permit 
Their  establishment  cursed  in  a  mad  drunken  fit; 

That  he  never  lost  money,  had  none  to  lose, — 
Himself  a  thief,  vagabond,  thus  to  abuse 
A  respectable  house,  where  gentlemen  come 
To  socially  quaff  their  ale,  gin,  and  rum. 

Then  rudely  cast  out,  in  the  cold,  open  street, 
Moneyless,  hungry,  with  nothing  to  eat; 
No  food  for  thought  but  reflection  of  shame. 
And  a  head  half-crazed  with  a  sobering  pain. 


THE  DYING  BOY. 


I  knew  a  boy  whose  infant  feet  had  trod 

Upon  the  blossoms  of  some  seven  springs, 

An<l  when  the  eighth  came  round,  and  called  him  out 

To  gamlxjl  in  llie  sun,  he  turned  away. 

And  sought  his  chamber  to  lie  down  and  die  ! 

'Twas  night;  he  summoned  his  accustomed  friends. 

And,  on  this  wise,  bestowed  his  last  bequest: — 

Mother!  I'm  dying  now — 
There's  a  deep  suffocation  in  my  breast. 
As  if  Koiiie  heavy  liand  my  bosom  prest; 

And  on  my  brow 

I  feel  the  cold  sweat  stand  : 
My  lips  grow  dry  and  tremulous,  and  my  breath 
Comes  fecl^Iy  up.     Oii,  tell  me!  is  this  (U-ath? 

Mother!  your  hand — 


162  ONK   HUNDRED    CHOICE   SE  I.  lU'TlONS 

Here— lay  it  on  my  wrist, 
And  place  the  other  thus,  beneath  my  head, 
And  say,  sweet  mother! — say,  when  1  am  dead, 

Shall  1  be  missed  ? 

Never  beside  your  knee 
Shall  I  kneel  down  again  at  night  to  pray, 
Nor  with  the  morning  wake,  and  sing  the  lay 

You  taught  to  me ! 

Oh,  at  the  time  of  prayer, 
"When  you  look  round  and  see  a  vacant  scat, 
You  will  not  wait  then  for  my  coming  feet, — 
You'll  miss  me  there  ! 

Father !  I'm  going  home, 
To  the  good  home  you  speak  of,  that  blest  land 
Where  it  is  one  bright  summer  always,  and 

Storms  do  not  come. 

I  must  be  happy  then ; 
From  pain  and  death  you  say  I  shall  be  free; 
That  sickness  never  enters  there,  and  we 

Shall  meet  again  I 

Brother  ! — the  little  spot 
I  used  to  call  my  garden,  where  long  hours 
We've  stayed  to  watch  the  budding  things  and  flowers, 

Forget  it  not ! 

Plant  there  some  box  or  pine, —  I 

Something  that  lives  in  winter,  and  will  be 
A  verdant  offering  to  ray  memory, 

And  call  it  mine  I 

Sister !  my  young  rose  tree 
That  all  the  spring  has  been  my  pleasant  care. 
Just  putting  forth  its  leaves  so  green  and  fail', 

I  give  to  thee. 

And  when  its  roses  bloom, 
I  shall  be  gone  away, — my  short  life  donel 
But  will  you  not  bestow  a  single  one 

Upon  my  tomb  ?  ' 

Now,  mother  !  sing  the  tune 
You  sang  last  night — I'm  weary  and  must  sleep  ! 
Who  was  it  called  my  name? — Nay,  do  not  weep. 

You'll  all  come  soon ! 


NUMBER  FIVE.  163 

Morning  spread  over  earth  her  rosy  wings, 
And  that  meek  sufferer,  cold  and  ivory  pale, 
Lay  on  his  couch  asleep !     The  gentle  air 
Came  through  the  open  window,  freighted  with 
The  savory  odors  of  the  early  spring — 
He  breathed  it  not!    The  laugh  of  passers-by 
Jarred  like  a  discord  in  some  mournful  tune, 
But  marred  not  his  slumbers, — he  was  dead  ! 


CATILINE   EXPELLED.— Cicero. 

At  length,  Komans,  we  are  rid  of  Catiline !  We  have 
driven  him  forth,  drunk  with  fury,  breathing  mischief, 
threatening  to  revisit  us  with  fire  and  sword.  He  is 
gone  ;  he  is  fled  ;  he  has  escaped  ;  he  has  broken  away. 
No  longer,  within  the  very  walls  of  the  city,  shall  he  plot 
her  ruin.  We  have  forced  him  from  secret  plots  into 
open  rebellion.  The  bad  citizen  is  now  the  avowed  tx'ai- 
tor.  His  flight  is  the  confession  of  his  treason.  Would 
that  his  attendants  had  not  been  so  few  !  Be  speedy,  ye 
companions  of  his  dissolute  pleasures ;  be  speedy,  and 
you  may  overtake  him  before  night,  on  the  Aurelian  road. 
Let  him  not  languish,  deprived  of  your  society.  Haste 
to  join  the  congenial  crew  that  compose  his  army, — his 
array,  I  say,  for  who  doubts  that  the  army  under  Man- 
lius  expect  Catiline  for  their  leader  ?  And  such  an  army  ! 
Outcasts  from  honor,  and  fugitives  from  debt ;  gamblers 
and  felons ;  miscreants,  whose  dreams  are  of  rapine,  mur- 
der and  conflagration  ! 

Against  these  gallant  troops  of  your  adversary,  pre- 
pare, O  Romans,  your  garrisons  and  armies  ;  and  first  to 
that  maimed  and  battered  gladiator  oppose  your  consuls 
and  generals  ;  next,  against  that  miserable,  outcast  horde, 
lead  forth  the  strength  and  flower  of  all  Italy  !  On  the 
one  side  chastity  contends  ;  on  the  other,  wantonness  ; 
here  purity,  there  pollution  ;  here  integrity, there  treach- 
ery; here  piety,  there  profaneness  ;  here  constancy,  there 
rage ;   here   honesty,  there  baseness ;    here  continence, 


1G4  ONE   HUNDBED   CHOICE  SELECTION'S 

there  lust  ;  in  short,  equity,  temperance,  fortitude,  pru- 
dence, struggle  with  iniquity,  luxury,  cowardice,  rash- 
ness,— every  virtue  with  every  vice, — and,  lastly,  the  con- 
test lies  between  well-grounded  hope  and  absolute  despair. 
In  such  a  conflict,  were  even  human  aid  to  fail,  would 
not  the  immortal  gods  empower  such  conspicuous  virtue 
to  triumph  over  such  complicated  vice  ? 


A  COMICAL  DUN.— John-  McKeever. 

Dear  Ray: 
Gold  is  money,  and  money  is  gold ; 
Money  is  power,  too,  we're  told, — 
A  power  we  find  quite  hard  to  hold. 

But  harder  it  is  to  get  it. 
We  crave,  and  the  passions  all  unfold  ; 
Crime  is  purchased,  and  virtue  is  sold  ; 
Our  very  natures  grow  warm  or  cold 

As  we  borrow,  beg,  marry,  or  let  it. 

Talking  of  money,  puts  me  in  mind 
How  many  there  are  of  the  human  kind 
Sore  plagued  with  the  sin  of  being  "behind  ;  " 
Of  having  the  "  shorts,"  and  being  "in  need" 
And  out  at  the  elbows,  and  "running  to  seed," 
Em]^ty  in  pockets,  and  out  at  the  toes, 
And  "nary  a  red"  to  soothe  their  woes. 
Now,  we  know  that  a  simple  ten-dollar  note. 
In  the  channels  of  trade  kept  active  afloat 
And  changing  hands  nimbh^  during  the  day, 
Some  hundreds  of  dollars  of  debts  will  pay. 
And  could  we  this  qualification  enchain 
To  our  own  individual  use,  it  is  plain 
That  what  it  would  do  for  the  public,  you  see, 
'Twould  also  accomplish  for  you  or  for  me. 

But  now  for  the  cream  of  this  missive  of  fun. 

Which  I  own  in  advance,  is  a  comical  dun  : — 

We  hear  from  the  distant  Isle  of  Japan 

That  Mandarin  Ming  owes  Bumbo  Jam; 

And  the  latter  just  having  sustained  some  reverses, 

And  vented  the  usual  Japanese  curses, 


NUMBER   FIVE.  165 

In  short,  having  spent  to  his  very  last  "lac," 

Is  cleaned  out,  collapsed,  and  flat  on  his  back. 

Now,  Bumbo  Jam,  ruined,  'tis  certainly  plain, 

Must  live,  and  must  eat,  and  must  drink  just  the  same ; 

So  feeling  in  need  of  fricasseed  cat, 

A  dish  of  stewed  snails,  or  a  nice  deviled  rat, 

Makes  tracks  for  the  office  of  Mandarin  Ming, 

And  thus  he  salutes  him,  in  Japanese  "  ling:  " 

"  Hi  yah  !  Chee-chow-chow,  cum  oolong  boo ! 

Si-see.     Suchongkum,  hong  forkee,  o-doo  !  " 

In  English,—"  Look  here,  you  gray  old  sinner, 

Just  fork  out  enough  to  buy  me  a  dinner, 

And  pay  up  the  balance  as  soon  as  you  can, 

For  Bumbo's  a  most  unfortunate  man." 

Now  Mandarin  Ming  sends  over  the  sea 

To  famed  New  York,  to  his  consignee. 

This  letter :— "  Remit  by  next  packet  to  me. 

The  proceeds  of  all  my  Yung  Hyson  tea, 

Cinnamon,  nutmegs,  silks,  and  Bohea." 

The  result  of  this  is,  that  soon,  one  and  all, 

This  consignee's  debtors  are  subject  to  call ; 

And  they  in  their  turn,  must  actively  dun 

The  debtors  who  owe  them,  every  one. 

So,  Tom  he  duns  Dick,  and  Dick  duns  Daniel, 

And  Dan  proceeds  to  hurry  up  Samuel ; 

Sam  shins  over  and  wakes  up  Lew, 

Who  essays  a  call  on  Levy  the  Jew, 

But  failing  to  get  either  promise  or  pay, 

Drops  in  upon  Joe,  who  lives  over  the  way; 

He,  prompt  and  obliging,  runs  round  the  corner 

And  presents  his  account  to  his  friend  Harry  Horner ; 

Harry  asks  time  to  see  A  lick  Weaver, 

Alick  then  stirs  up  one  Johnnie  McKeever. 

John  forks  over  ;  but  the  very  next  day 

(And  meaning  his  comi)liments  only  to  pay) 

We  find  him  a-saying  "Good-morning"  to  Kay. 

'Tis  so  all  over  the  world,  friend  Ray, 
Where'er  are  presented  demands  for  pay. 
One  little  demand,  howe'er  small  it  n)ay  be, 
May  chance  to  effect  even  you  and  ine. 
Though  made  in  a  distant  remote  "'countrie." 
And  could  we  the  ramification  pursue. 
Of  all  the  den)ands  that  are  made  upon  you. 


166  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Or  on  me,  or  in  fact  upon  any  other, 

It  might  be  no  very  great  feat  to  discover 

Tliat  the  demand  herein  made  upon  Ray 

Might  perchance  had  its  birth  off  in  Botany  Bay. 

Nov?  after  this  effort,  perhaps  you  may  say 
"  'Tis  fun  to  be  dunned  in  so  pleasant  a  way, 

He's  a  trump  of  the  very  first  water. 
If  so,  please  send  the  amount  of  my  claim, 
Or  else  I  may  write  in  a  different  strain. 

To  say  that  I  think  you  "had  oughter." 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER.— Sophia  P.  Snow. 

'Twas  the  eve  before  Christmas;   "Good  night"  had  been 

said, 
And  Annie  and  Willie  had  crept  into  bed ; 
There  were  tears  on  their  pillows,  and  tears  in  their  eyes. 
And  each  little  bosom  was  heaving  with  sighs, 
For  to-night  their  stern  father's  command  had  been  given 
That  they  should  retire  precisely  at  seven 
Instead  of  at  eight;  for  they  troubled  him  more 
With  questions  unheard  of  than  ever  before  ; 
He  had  told  them  he  thought  this  delusion  a  sin, 
No  such  being  as  Santa  Claus  ever  had  been. 
And  he  hoped,  after  this,  he  should  never  more  hear 
How  he  scrambled  down  chimneys  with  presents,  each  year. 
And  this  was  the  reason  that  two  little  heads 
So  restlessly  tossed  on  their  soft  downy  beds. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  clock  on  the  steeple  tolled  ten  ; 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  till  then ; 
When  Willie's  sad  face  from  the  blanket  did  peep, 
And  whispered,  "  Dear  Annie,  is  oo  fast  asleep  ?  " 
"  Why,  no,  brother  Willie,"  a  sweet  voice  replies, 
"  I've  tried  it  in  vain,  but  I  can't  shut  my  eyes; 
For  somehow,  it  makes  me  so  sorry  because 
Dear  papa  has  said  there  is  no  Santa  Claus  ; 
Now  we  know  there  is.  and  it  can't  be  denied. 
For  he  came  every  year  before  mamma  died  ; 
But  then  I've  been  thinking  that  she  used  to  pray, 
And  God  would  hear  everything  mamma  would  say; 
And  perhaps  she  asked  him  to  send  Santa  Claus  here 
With  the  sacks  full  of  presents  he  brought  every  year.'* 


NUMBER   FIVE,  167 

"  Well,  why  tant  we  pay  dest  as  mamma  did  then, 

And  ask  liim  to  send  him  with  presents  aden?" 

"  I've  been  thinking'  so,  too,"  and,  without  a  word  more, 

Four  little  bare  feet  bounded  out  on  the  lloor, 

And  four  little  knees  the  soft  carpet  pressed, 

And  two  tiny  hands  were  clasped  close  to  each  breast. 

*'  Now,  Willie,  you  know  we  must  firmly  believe 

That  the  presents  we  ask  for  we're  sure  to  receive ; 

You  must  wait  just  as  still  till  I  say  the  'Amen,' 

And  by  that  you  will  know  that  your  turn  has  come  then. 

Dear  Jesus,  look  down  on  my  brother  and  me, 

And  grant  us  the  favor  we  are  asking  of  Thee! 

I  want  a  wax  dolly,  a  tea-set  and  ring, 

Antl  an  ebony  work-box  that  shuts  with  a  spring. 

Bless  papa,  dear  Jesus,  and  cause  him  to  see 

That  Santa  Claus  loves  us  far  better  than  he ; 

Don't  let  him  get  fretful  and  angry  again 

At  dear  brother  Willie,  and  Annie,  Amen  !  " 

"  Peas  Desus  'et  Santa  Taus  tum  down  to-night, 

And  bing  us  some  pesents  before  it  is  'ight ; 

I  want  he  should  div  me  a'  nice  ittle  sed. 

With  bight,  shiny  unners,  and  all  painted  yed; 

A  box  full  of  tandy,  a  book  and  a  toy — 

Amen— and  then  Desus,  I'll  be  a  dood  boy." 

Their  prayers  being  ended  they  raised  up  their  heads, 
And  with  liearts  light  and  cheerful  again  sought  their  beds  ; 
They  were  soon  lost  in  slumber  both  peaceful  and  deep, 
And  with  fairies  in  dreamland  were  roaming  in  sleep. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  little  French  clock  had  struck  ten 
Ere  the  father  had  thought  of  his  children  again  ; 
He  seems  now  to  hear  Annie's  half  suppressed  sighs, 
And  to  see  the  big  tears  stand  in  Willie's  blue  eyes. 
"  I  was  harsh  with  my  darlings,"  he  menially  said, 
"And  should  not  have  sent  them  so  early  to  bed  ; 
But  then  I  was  troubled,— my  feelings  found  vent, 
For  bank-stock  to-day  has  gone  down  ten  per  cent.  ^ 
But  of  course  they've  forgotten  their  troubles  ere  this, 
And  that  I  denied  them  the  thrice  asked-for  kiss; 
But  just  to  make  sure  I'll  steal  up  to  their  door. 
For  I  never  spoke  harsh  to  my  darlings  before." 

So  saying,  ho  softly  ascended  the  stairs, 

And  "arrived  at  the  door  t.j  hear  Ijoth  of  their  prayers. 


168  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOUE    SELECTIONS 

His  Annie's  "bless  papa,"  draws  forth  the  big  tears, 

And  Willie's  grave  prtjinise  falls  sweet  on  his  ears. 

"  Strange,  strange  I"d  forgotten,"  said  he  with  a  sigh, 

"  How  J  longed  when  a  child  to  have  Christmas  draw  nigh. 

I'll  atone  for  my  harshness,"  he  inwardly  said, 

"  By  answering  their  prayers,  ere  I  sleep  in  my  bed." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  stairs,  and  softly  went  down. 
Threw  oft'  velvet  slippers  and  silk  dressing-gown  ; 
iJonned  hat,  coat,  and  boots,  and  was  out  in  the  street, 
A  millionaire  facing  the  cold  driving  sleet. 
Nor  stopped  he  until  he  had  bought  everything, 
From  the  box  full  of  candy  to  the  tiny  gold  ring. 
Indeed  he  kept  adding  so  much  to  liis  store 
That  the  various  presents,  outnumbered  a  score  ; 
Then  homeward  he  turned  wi^h  his  holiday  load 
And  witi  Aunt  Mary's  aid  in  the  nursery  'twas  stowed. 

Miss  Dolly  was  seated  beneath  a  pine-tree. 

By  the  side  of  a  table  spread  out  for  a  tea  ; 

A  work-box  well  filled  in  the  centre  was  laid. 

And  on  it  the  ring  for  which  Annie  had  prayed; 

A  soldier  in  uniform  stood  by  a  sled 

With  bright  shining  runners,  and  all  painted  red  ; 

There  were  balls,  dogs  and  horses,  books  pleasing  to  see, 

A  nd  birds  of  all  colors  were  perched  in  the  tree, 

AVhile  Santa  Glaus,  laughing,  stood  up  in  the  top, 

As  if  getting  ready  more  presents  to  drop. 

And  as  the  fond  father  the  picture  surveyed, 

He  thought,  for  his  trouble  he  had  amply  been  paid; 

And  he  said  to  himself  as  he  brushed  off  a  tear, 

"  I'm  happier  to  night  than  I've  been  for  a  year. 

I've  enjoyed  more  true  pleasure  than  ever  before — 

What  care  I  if  bank  stocks  fall  ten  per  cent.  more. 

Hereafter  I'll  make  it  a  rule,  I  believe, 

To  have  Santa  Glaus  visit  us  each  Ghristmas  eve." 

So  thinking  he  gently  extinguished  the  light, 

And  tripped  down  the  stairs  to  retire  for  the  night. 

As  soon  as  the  beams  of  the  bright  morning  sun 
Put  the  darkness  to  flight,  and  the  slars,  one  by  one, 
Four  little  blue  eyes  out  of  sleep  opened  wide. 
And  at  the  same  moment  the  presents  espied  ; 
Then  out  of  their  beds  they  sprang  with  a  bound, 
And  the  very  gifts  prayed  for  were  all  of  them  found  ; 


'  N  DMBER   FIVE.  169 

They  laughed  and  they  cried  in  their  innocent  glee, 

And  shouted  for  papa  to  come  quick  and  see 

AVhat  presents  old  i?anta  Claus  brought  in  the  night 

(Just  the  things  that  they  wanted)  and  left  before  light; 

'"And  now,"  added  Annie,  in  a  voice  soft  and  low, 

"  You'll  believe  there's  a  Santa  Claus,  papa,  1  know  ;  " 

While  dear  little  Willie  climbed  up  on  his  knee, 

Determined  no  secret  between  them  should  be, 

And  tohl  in  soft  whispers  how  Annie  had  said 

That  their  blessed  mamma,  so  long  ago  dead. 

Used  to  kneel  down  and  pray  by  the  side  of  her  chair, 

And  that  God,  up  in  heaven,  had  answered  her  prayer ! 

"  Then  we  dot  up,  and  payed  dust  as  well  as  we  tould. 

And  Dod  answered  our  payers;  now  wasirt  he  dood?  " 

"  I  shoul  1  ^xy  that  he  was  if  he  sent  you  all  these. 
And  knew  just  what  presents  my  children  would  please. 
Well,  well,  let  him  think  so,  the  dear  little  elf, 
'Twould  be  cruel  to  tell  him  1  did  it  myself." 

Blind  father  I  who  caused  your  proud  heart  to  relent, 
And  the  hasty  word  spoken  so  soon  to  repent? 
'Twas  the  Being  who  made  you  steal  softly  up  stairs, 
And  made  you  His  agent  to  answer  their  prayei-s. 


WHAT  DOES   IT  MATTER. 

It  matters  little  where  I  was  born. 

Or  if  my  parents  were  rich  or  poor, 
Whether  they  shrank  from  the  cold  world's  scorn 

Or  walked  in  thi  pride  of  wealth  secure ; 
But  wiiether  I  live  an  honest  man, 

And  hold  my  integrity  firm  in  my  clutch, 
I  tell  you,  my  brother,  as  plain  as  I  can, 

It  matters  much  ! 

It  matters  little  how  long  I  stay 

In  a  world  of  sorrow,  sin.  and  care  ; 
Whether  in  youth  I  am  calU'fl  away, 

Or  live  till  my  bones  of  flesh  are  bare; 
But  whether  I  do  the  best  I  can 

To  soften  the  weight  of  adversity's  touch 
On  tlie  faded  cheek  of  my  fellow  man, 

It  matters  much  ! 

8 


170  ONE    UUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

It  matters  little  where  be  my  grave, 

If  on  the  land,  or  in  the  sea  ; 
By  purling  brook,  'neath  stormy  wave, 

It  matters  little  or  nought  to  me  ; 
But  whether  the  angel  of  death  comes  down 

And  marks  my  brow  with  a  loving  touch, 
As  one  that  shall  wear  the  victor's  ciown, 

It  matters  much ! 


THE  MONEYLESS  MAN.— H.  T.  Stanton. 

Is  there  no  secret  place  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
Where  charity  dwelleth,  where  virtue  has  birth, 
Where  bosoms  in  mercy  and  kindness  will  heave 
When  the  poor  and  the  wretched  shall  ask  and  receive? 
Is  there  no  place  at  all  where  a  knock  from  the  poor 
Will  bring  a  kind  angel  to  open  the  door  ? 
Oh!  search  the  wide  world,  wherever  you  can. 
There  is  no  open  door  for  a  moneyless  man. 

Go,  look  in  your  hall  where  the  chandelier's  light 
Drives  off  with  its  splendor  the  darkness  of  night ; 
Where  the  rich  hanging  velvet,  in  shadowy  fold, 
Sweeps  gracefully  down  with  its  trimmings  of  gold  ; 
And  the  mirrors  of  silver  take  up  and  renew, 
In  long-lighted  vistas,  the  wildering  view — 
Go  there  at  the  banquet,  and  find,  if  you  can, 
A  welcoming  smile  for  a  moneyless  man. 

Go,  look  in  yon  church  of  the  cloud-reaching  spire, 
Which  gives  to  the  sun  his  same  look  of  red  fire  ; 
Where  the  arches  and  columns  are  gorgeous  within, 
And  the  walls  seem  as  pure  as  a  soul  without  sin  ; 
AValk  down  the  long  aisles  ;  see  the  rich  and  the  great 
Tn  the  pomp  and  the  pride  of  their  worldly  estate  ; 
Walk  down  in  your  patches,  and  find,  if  you  can. 
Who  opens  a  pew  for  a  moneyless  man. 

Go,  look  in  the  banks,  where  mammon  has  told 

His  hundreds  and  thousands  of  silver  and  gold  ; 

Where,  safe  from  the  hands  of  the  starving  and  poor, 

Lie  piles  upon  piles  of  the  glittering  ore  ; 

Walk  up  to  their  counters— ah !  there  you  may  stay 

Till  your  limbs  shall  grow  old  and  your  hair  shall  grow  gray, 

And  you'll  find  at  the  bank  not  one  of  the  clan 

With  money  to  lend  to  a  moneyless  man. 


NDMBER    FIVE.  171 

Go,  look  to  your  Judge,  in  his  dark,  flowing  gown, 
With  the  scales  wherein  hiw  weigheth  equity  down; 
Where  he  frowns  on  the  weak  and  smiles  on  the  strong, 
And  punishes  right  whilst  he  justifies  wrong; 
Where  juries  their  lips  to  the  Bible  have  laid 
To  render  a  verdict  they've  already  made ; 
Go  there  in  the  court-room  and  lind  if  you  can 
Any  law  for  the  cause  of  a  moneyless  man. 

Then  go  to  your  hovel — no  raven  has  fed 

The  wife  that  has  suffered  too  long  for  her  bread  ; 

Kneel  down  by  her  pallet  and  kiss  the  death-frost 

From  the  lips  of  the  angel  your  poverty  lost ; 

Then  turn  in  your  agony  upward  to  God 

And  bless,  while  it  smites  you,  the  chastening  rod  ; 

And  you'll  find  at  the  end  of  your  life's  little  span, 

There's  a  welcome  above  for — a  moneyless  man. 


DARKEY'S  COUNSEL  TO  THE  NEWLY  MAR- 
RIED.— Edmund  Kirke. 

My  chil'ren,  lub  one  anoder ;  bar  wid  one  anoder;  be 
faithful  ter  one  anoder.  You  hab  started  on  a  long  jour- 
ney ;  many  rough  places  am  in  de  road ;  many  trubbles 
will  spring  up  by  de  wayside  ;  but  gwo  on  hand  an'  hand 
togedder;  lub  one  anoder,  an'  no  matter  what  come  ou- 
ter you,  you  will  be  happy — fur  lub  will  sv.'eeten  ebery 
sorrer,  lighten  ebery  load,  make  de  sun  shine  in  eben  de 
bery  cloudiest  wedder.  I  knows  it  will,  my  chil'ren,  'case 
I'se  been  ober  de  groun'.  Ole  Aggy  an'  I  hab  trabbled 
de  road.  Hand  in  hand  we  hab  gone  ober  de  rocks  ;  fru 
de  mud  ;  in  de  hot  burning  sand  ;  been  out  togedder  in 
de  cole,  an'  de  rain,  an'  de  storm,  fur  nigh  outer  forty 
yar,  but  we  hab  clung  to  one  anoder  an'  fru  lebery  ting 
in  de  bery  darkest  days,  de  sun  ob  joy  an'  peace  hab  broke 
fru  de  clouds,  an'  sent  him  bressed  rays  inter  our  hearts. 
We  started  jess  like  two  young  saplin's  you's  seed  a- 
growin  side  by  side  in  de  woods.  At  fust  we  seemed  'way 
part  fur  de  brambles,  an'  de  tick  bushes,  an'  do  ugly 
forus — dem  war  our  bad  ways — war  atvveeu  us  ;  but  lub, 


172  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

like  de  sun,  shone  down  on  us,  an'  we  growed.  We  growed 
till  our  heads  got  above  de  bushes;  till  dis  little  branch, 
an'  dat  little  branch — dem  war  our  holy  feelin's — put  out 
toward  one  anoder,  an' we  come  closer  an'  closer  togedder. 
An'  dough  we'ni  ole  trees  now,  an'  sometime  de  wind 
blow,  an'  de  storm  rage  fru  de  tops,  an'  freaten  ter  tear 
off  de  limbs,  an'  ter  pull  up  de  bery  roots,  we'm  growin' 
closer  an'  closer,  an'  nearer  an'  nearer  togedder  ebery 
day — an' soon  de  ole  tops  will  meet ;  soon  de  ole  branches, 
all  cohered  ober  wid  de  gray  moss,  will  twine  roun'  one 
anoder ;  soon  de  two  ole  trees  will  come  togedder,  an' 
grow  inter  one  foreber, — grow  inter  one  up  dar  in  de 
sky,  whar  de  wind  neber'll  blow,  whar  de  storm  neber'll 
beat ;  whar  we  shill  blossom  an'  bar  fruit  to  de  glory  ob 
de  Lord,  an'  in  His  heabenly  kingdom  foreber !    Amen. 


THE  BALANCE   WHEEL.— Elmei;  Rl-an  Coates. 

The  world,  so  full  of  talent, 

Will  be  nearer  full  of  right 
When  people  do  the  best  they  can, 

And  do  it  with  their  might; 
And,  while  we  talk  of  doing, 

There's  a  point  I  would  reveal ; 
You  make  an  even  speed,  if  you 

Will  wear— a  balance  wheel. 

Some  folks  are  ever  preaching, 

And  are  ever  praying,  too ; 
They'd  have  you  practice  what  they  say, 

But  not  as  they  would  do  ; 
You  never  see  example 

Of  the  holy  things  they  feel ; 
They  have  no  moral  power 

For  they  have  no— balance  wheel. 

Brown  thinks,  if  be  is  social, 
That  his  wealth  is  sure  to  grow ; 

He  buttonholes  you  just  the  time 
You'd  give  a  V  to  go ; 


NUMBER   FIVE.  173 

He's  thick  with  all  the  sporting  men, 

And  bores  you  till  you  feel 
That  Brown's  a  clever  fellow, 

But  he  lacks— a  balance  wheel. 

Smith  tries  the  game  of  dignity 

And  makes  a  grand  disj)lay ; 
He  freezes  every  living  thing 

That  comes  within  his  way; 
No  person  will  approach  him, 

And  no  person  deign  to  kneel ; 
But  peoi:)le  very  freely  say 

He  needs— a  balance  wheel. 

Tom  vows  he  will  be  practical, 

He  really  labors  hard, 
And  aims  to  be  a  millionaire, 

Like  Astor  and  Girard  ; 
He  never  reads  a  paper. 

Yet  he  works  away  with  zeal, 
And  loses  all,  because  lie  failed 

To  get — a  balance  wheel. 

A  scholar  says  that  learning 

Is  the  only  noble  aim  ; 
He  studies  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

Till  he  is  near  insane  ; 
His  head  is  full  of  wisdom 

That  he  never  will  reveal ; 
So  mark  him  down  as  nothing 

For  he  lacks — a  balance  wheel. 

Bill  forms  a  resolution  ; 

He  is  bound  "to  make  a  sum," 
By  "giving  in"  to  every  man, 

And  differing  with  none; 
He's  never  slow  with  "Yes"  and  "No,'* 

And  sli])i)ery  as  an  eel ; 
His  neiglibors  say  he  is  a  flat. 

And  lacks — a  balance  wheel. 

Sam  hates  the  name  of  weathercock, 

And  would  reverse  the  rule; 
Wlien  once  he  takes  a  notion, 

Th(!re's  a  notion  with  a  mule; 
If  lie  should  iiiid  liis  error, 

'Tis  a  thing  he'll  not  reveal ; 


174  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  people  say  he  is  a  stick, 
And  needs —a  balance  wheel. 

No  wonder  that  so  many  fail 

And  fizzle  out  again  ; 
They  take  the  stuff  for  one  great  man 

And  make  two  little  men  ; 
Or,  venturing  beyond  their  depth, 

They  drown  their  liery  zeal ; 
You'll  find  them  known  as  able  men 

Who  lack — a  balance  wheel. 

The  world,  so  full  of  talent, 

Would  be  nearer  full  of  right, 
If  we  would  run  the  engine 

With  its  whole  effective  might ; 
And  though  we're  doing  wonders. 

We  would  greater  things  reveal, 
If  on  the  apparatus 

Each  would  nang — a  balance  wheel. 


THE  SUPER'S   STORY.— Edwin  Drew. 

You  see,  sir,  I'm  only  a  super, 

I'm  one  of  the  mob  on  the  stage, 
With  never  a  line  to  utter 

The  crowd  in  front  to  engage. 
My  part  is  to  hold  up  a  banner, 

And  show  an  intelligent  gaze. 
For  which  I  am  paid  just  a  trifle. 

And  I've  been  in  a  number  of  plays. 

Dreams?    Yes,  I've  had  lots  of  dreaming. 

From  very  earliest  hours. 
When  far  of!',  a  youtli  in  the  country, 

I  fancied  I'd  wonderful  powers; 
And  looked  on  the  players  a-stroUing 

As  beings  of  highest  renown, 
When  they  visited  with  their  stock-piecea 

The  hall  in  our  little  old  town. 

I  learnt  pieces  and  used  to  recite  them. 
The  country  folk  thought  very  well. 

And  then  the  desire  for  fresh  triumphs 
Had  o'er  me  a  dominant  spell. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  175 

So  off  with  a  band  of  poor  actors 

I  wandered  one  fine  summer  day, 
With  sentiment,  purest  and  sweetest, 

And  poetry  ligliting  the  play. 

My  vision  soon  lost  all  its  brightness, 

My  stars  quickly  twinkled  right  out, 
My  fortunes  they  were  not  the  fairest — 

There  was  so  much  trouble  and  doubt. 
At  Plymouth  a  young  lady  joined  us, 

The  fairest  I  ever  beheld, 
It  seemed  that  in  true  girlish  beauty 

The  charming  young  novice  excelled. 

Quick  Cupid  effected  a  capture — 

For  Millie  May  held  me  her  slave, 
And  a  boyish  but  earnest  devotion 

To  Milly  I  constantly  gave. 
She  had  the  right  stuff  and  to  acting 

She  took  in  the  readiest  style, 
A  fine  study  was  she,  nothing  daunted, 

The  hardest  task  causing  a  smile. 

We  were  sweetheai'ts  and  life  had  some  sunshine  ; 

Though  cash  was  exceedingly  low 
Still  the  little  we  got  was  well-handled, 

A  long  way  we  made  it  to  go. 
AVe  wandered  in  towns  and  in  cities. 

O'er  green  hills,  in  flowery  vales. 
Indulging  in  sunniest  fancy, 

Inventing  the  prettiest  tales. 

We  talked  of  the  future  and  pictured 

What  life  in  grand  London  would  bo 
When  fame  was  secured  and  the  thousands 

Would  crowd  in  my  Hamlet  to  see. 
Her  Juliet,  too,  was  to  win  her 

The  greatest  of  fortune  and  fame, 
We'd  drive  through  the  town  in  our  carriage, 

And  riches  and  honor  would  claim. 

Early  dreamings,  but  there  wc  were  happy, 
And  worked  in  the  struggling  old  show, 

Cheered  up  by  our  hope  and  affection 
Which  gave  life  a  tenderer  glow. 

But  then,  she'd  to  leave  ;  she  departed; 
The  day  was  of  veriest  gloom, 


176  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE  ,  SELECTIONS 

The  flowers  of  hope  seemed  to  wither 
Away  from  her  sunshine  and  bloom. 

Letters  passed  all  full  of  devotion, 

Every  day  to  each  other  we  wrote, 
Telling  this,  telling  that,  filling  pages, 

And  verses  we'd  ever  to  quote. 
She  was  rising,  but  I  found  small  difference, 

My  path  seemed  no  clearer  to  grow, 
She  took  an  American  ofler 

And  went  further  triumph  to  know. 

I  grew  weak,  and  weary  of  trying. 

Still  wandering  about  to  each  town 
And  seeming  as  distant  as  ever 

I  could  be  from  wealth  and  renown. 
Sickened  out,  and  despondent,  I  answered 

Her  letters  in  querulous  way. 
At  last  I  was  too  ill  to  wander 

And  in  a  strange  place  had  to  stay. 

A  long  illness  and  then  I  recovered. 

But  far  from  regaining  my  strength. 
To  London  I  traveled,  becoming 

A  poorly-paid  super,  at  length. 
And  at  this  for  some  years  I've  continued, 

Existing  on  narrowest  means, 
Though  often  a  gaily-drest  fellow 

In  very  luxurious — scenes. 

You  ask  what  became  of  my  INIilly  ? 

Why  she  won  the  greatest  of  fame. 
And  to-day,  mid  the  bright  ones  of  London 

There's  not  a  more  favorite  name. 
She's  going  to  act  here  this  morning. 

Just  look  at  the  gathering  crowd. 
Men  are  talking  about  her  grand  powers 

Her  praises  are  sounding  aloud. 

Here  she  is  in  her  bright  flashing  carriage, 

A  beautiful  picture  to  see. 
Good  heavens  ;  to  think  that  that  lady 

Was  Millie  May  plighted  to  me. 
And  now  in  big  London  she's  worshiped  ; 

Right  well,  too,  she's  worthy  her  rank ; 
She  drew  a  prize  in  life's  lottery. 

While  mine  was  simply  a  blank. 


NUMBER   FIVE.  177 


LOVE  LIGHTENS  LABOR. 

A  good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn, 

And  thought  with  a  nervous  dread 
Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  be  washed,  and  more 

Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 
There's  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the  field, 

And  the  children  to  start  away 
To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and  churned ; 

And  all  to  be  done  this  day. 

It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be  ; 
There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  besides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 
And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said, 
"  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  wed  I " 

"  Jennie,  what  do  you  think  I  told  Ben  Brown  ?  " 

Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 
And  a  flush  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow, 

And  his  eyes  half  bashfully  fell ; 
"It  was  this,"  he  said,  and,  coming  near. 

He  smiled,  and  stooping  down, 
Kissed  her  cheek,—"  'twas  this,  that  you  were  the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town !  " 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the  wife 
In  a  smiling,  absent  way 

Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 
She'd  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 

And  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the  clothes- 
Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 

Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was  sweet, 
And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

"  Just  think,"  the  children  all  called  in  a  breath, 

"  Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea ! 
He  wouldn't,  I  know,  if  he'd  only  had 

As  happy  a  home  as  we." 
The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife  smiled 

To  herself,  as  slie  softly  said  : 
"  'Tis  so  sweet  to  lal)or  fur  those  we  love. 

It's  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed  ! " 

8» 


178  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 


IS  IT  ANYBODY'S  BUSINESS? 

Is  it  anybody's  business 

If  a  gentleman  should  choose 
To  wait  upon  a  lady, 

If  the  lady  don't  refuse? 
Or,  to  speak  a  little  plainer, 

That  the  meaning  all  may  know 
Is  it  anybody's  business 

If  a  lady  has  a  beau  ? 

Is  it  anybody's  business 

When  that  gentleman  doth  call, 
Or  when  he  leaves  the  lady, 

Or  if  he  leaves  at  all  ? 
Or  is  it  necessary 

That  the  curtain  should  be  drawn 
To  save  from  further  trouble 

The  outside  lookers-on  ? 

Is  it  anybody's  business 

But  the  lady's,  if  her  beau 
Eideth  out  with  other  ladies, 

And  doesn't  let  her  know  ? 
,Is  it  anybody's  business. 

But  the  gentlemen's,  if  she 
Should  accept  another  escort. 

Where  he  doesn't  chance  to  be? 

If  a  person's  on  the  side-walk. 

Whether  great  or  whether  small, 
Is  it  anybody's  business 

Where  that  person  means  to  call? 
Or  if  you  see  a  person 

While  he's  calling  anywhere. 
Is  it  any  of  your  business 

What  his  business  may  be  there? 

The  substance  of  our  query, 

Simply  stated,  would  be  this: 
Is  it  anybody's  business 

What  another's  business  is? 
Whether 'tis  or  whether  'tisn't 

We  should  really  like  to  know. 
For  we  are  certain,  if  it  isn't. 

There  are  some  who  make  it  so. 


NUMBER  FIVE.  179 


THE  WOUNDED  SOLDIER. 

Steady,  boys,  steady  I 

Keep  your  arms  ready, 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 

Don't  let  me  be  taken ; 

I'd  rather  awaken 
To-morrow  in — no  matter  where. 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hole,  over  there. 

Step  slowly ! 

Speak  lowly  I 
The  rocks  may  have  life  ; 
Lay  me  down  in  the  hollow ; 
We  are  out  of  the  strife. 

By  heaven !  the  foeman  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 
No !  no  surgeon  for  me  ;  he  can  give  me  no  aid ; 
The  surgeon  I  want  is  a  pickaxe  and  spade. 
What,  Morris,  a  tear  ?     Why,  shame  on  you,  man 
I  thought  you  a  hero ;  but  since  you  began 
To  whimj^er  and  cry,  like  a  girl  in  her  teens. 
By  George !  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  it  means. 
Well!  well!  I  am  rough,  'tis  a  very  rough  school, 
This  life  of  a  trooper — but  yet  I'm  no  fool ! 
I  know  a  brave  man,  and  a  friend  from  a  foe; 
And,  boys,  that  you  love  me  I  certainly  know. 

But  wasn't  it  grand. 
When  they  came  down  the  hill  over  sloughing  and  sand? 
But  we  stood  -did  we  not? — like  immovable  rock. 
Unheeding  their  balls  and  repelling  their  shock. 

Did  you  mind  the  loud  cry 

When,  as  turning  to  fly. 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them  determined  to  die  ? 

Oh,  wasn't  it  grand  ? 
Go'l  help  the  poor  wretches  who  fell  in  the  fight; 
No  time  was  there  given  foB  prayers  or  for  flight. 
They  fell  by  the  i-core,  in  tlic^  crash,  hand  to  hand. 
And  they  minglc^l  their  blood  with  the  sloughing  and  sand. 

Huzza ! 
Groat  heaven  !  this  bullet-hole  gapes  like  a  grave  ; 
A  curse  on  the  aim  of  the  traitorous  knave! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray. 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away? 

Pray !  I'ray  I 


180  ONE   HUNDKKD    CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

Our  Father !  our  Father !  why  don't  you  proceed  ? 
Can't  you  see  I  am  dying?     Great  God,  how  I  bleed! 

Ebbing  away  !  Ebbing  away  1 
The  light  of  the  day  is  turning  to  gray. 

Pray !     Pray ! 

Our  Father  in  heaven — boys,  tell  me  the  rest, 

While  I  stanch  the  hot  blood  from  this  hole  in  my  breast. 

There's  something  about  the  forgiveness  of  sin; 

Put  that  in!  put  that  in  !— and  then 

I'll  follow  your  words  and  say  an  amen. 

Here,  Morris,  old  fellow,  get  hold  of  my  hand, 

And,  Wilson,  my  comrade— oh  !  wasn't  it  grand 

When  they  came  down  the  hill  like  a  thunder-charged  cloud, 

And  were  scattered  like  mist  by  our  brave  little  crowd? 

Where's  Wilson,  my  comrade — here,  stoop  down  your  head, 

Can't  you  say  a  short  prayer  for  the  dying  and  dead? 

"  Christ-God,  who  died  for  sinners  all, 

Hear  thou  this  supjiliant  wanderer's  cry ; 
Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sparrow  fall 

Unheeded  by  thy  gracious  eye  ; 
Throw  wide  thy  gates  to  let  him  in, 

And  take  him  pleading  to  thine  arms 
Forgive,  0  Lord,  his  life-long  sin, 

And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms." 

God  bless  you,  my  comrade,  for  singing  that  hymn. 
It  is  light  to  my  path, — now  my  sight  has  grown  dim — 
I  am  dying— bend  down — till  I  touch  you  once  more; 
Don't  forget  me,  old  fellow— God  prosper  this  war ! 
Confusion  to  enemies ! — keep  hold  of  my  hand — 
And  float  our  dear  flag  o'er  a  prosperous  land  ! 


THE  STRANGE  LAND.— Robert  C.  V.  Meyeks.* 

"  Where  have  you  been,  my  little  daughter, 

Where  have  you  been  this  day?" 
"  I  have  been  in  a  place  that  knows  no  time, 

Where  the  hours  keep  away." 


*Aut.lic>r  of  "Jamie,"  "  G:ibi''s  (;iin.-itm;is  Eve,"  '•  If  I  slioulil  Die  To-uigiit," 
and  otlier  poiiiilar  recitations  in  sufoePilins;  Numbers  of  this  Series.  Mr.  Mjtrs 
has  also  contributed  many  e.\celleut  Plays,  for  tlie  Dramatic  Supplements. 


NUMBER    FI  V  E.  181 

"That  is  a  strange  thing  to  say,  little  daughter — 

And  what  saw  you  in  that  place  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  saw  the  song  warm  into  living, 

Like  the  color  into  a  face." 

"And  what  heard  you  there,  my  little  daughter, 
In  that  place  that  you  have  found  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  heard  the  perfume  sing  in  a  rose, 
As  it  bloomed  up  out  of  the  ground." 

*  "And  who  was  with  you  there,  little  daughter, 

;  In  that  strange  place  you  trod?  " 

"Oh,  all  sweet  thoughts,  and  prayers,  and  joys 
That  come  to  us  down  from  God." 

"Ami  what  is  the  name  of  that  place,  little  daughter, 
Where  such  strange  things  you  prove?  " 

"  The  birds  and  the  flowers  and  the  angels,  mother. 
Called  it  the  Land  of  Love." 


CHAR-CO-O-AL. 


The  chimney  soot  was  falling  fast, 
As  through  the  streets  and  alleys  passed 
A  man  who  sang,  with  noise  and  din. 
This  word  with  singular  meanin', 

Char-co-o-al ! 

His  face  was  grim,  his  nose  upturned, 
As  if  the  very  ground  he  spurned ; 
And  like  a  trumpet  sound  was  heard 
The  accents  of  that  awful  word, 

Char-co-o-al ! 

In  muddy  streets  he  did  descry 
The  "  moire  antiques"  held  high  and  dry. 
With  feet  and  ankles  shown  too  well, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  yell — 

Char-co-o-al  1 

"  Don't  go  there  !  "  was  the  warning  sound ; 
"The  pipes  have  all  burst  underground. 
The  ra;:"iiig  torrent's  deep  and  wide;" 
But  loud  his  trumpet  voice  rej)lied, 

Char-co-o-al  I 


182  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Oh,  stop !  "  good  Biddy  cried,  "and  lave 
A  brimful  peck  upon  this  pave." 
A  smile  hiss  inky  face  came  o'er, 
And  on  he  went  with  louder  roar, 

Char-co-o-al  1 

"Beware  of  Main  street  crossing  deep, 
Away  from  Walnut  gutter  keep  I  " 
This  was  the  sweeper's  only  greet, 
A  voice  replied  far  up  the  street, 

Char-co-o-al ! 

At  set  of  sun,  as  homeward  went 
The  joyous  men  of  cent  per  cent, 
Counting  the  dollars  in  their  till, 
A  voice  was  heard^both  loud  and  shrill, 

Char-co-o-al ! 

A  man,  upon  the  watchman's  round, 
Half-steeped  in  mud  and  ice  was  found, 
Shouting  with  voice,  though  not  so  strong. 
That  awful  W'ord  which  heads  my  song, 

Char-co-o-al ! 

There  in  the  gaslight,  dim  and  gray, 
Dreaming  unconsciously  he  lay, 
And  from  his  nose,  turned  up  still  more. 
Came  sounding  like  a  thrilling  snore — 

Char-co-o-al ! 


CROSSING  THE  CARRY.-Rev.  W.  H.  H.  Murray. 

Scene. — Tlie  Adiroiidacks  during  a  shower.     A  pleasure-seeker  and  his  guide  on 

the  road. 

"  John,"  said  I,  as  we  stood  looking  at  each  other  a- 
cross  the  boat,  "  this  rain  is  wet." 

"  It  generally  is,  up  in  this  region,  I  believe,"  he  re- 
sponded, as  he  wiped  the  water  out  of  his  eyes  witli  the 
back  of  his  hand,  and  shook  the  accumulating  drops 
from  nose  and  chin  ;  "  but  the  waterproof  I  have  on  has 
lasted  me  some  thirty-eight  years,  and  I  don't  think  it 
will  wet  through  to-day." 

"  Well ! "  I  exclaimed,  "there  is  no  use  of  standing 
here  in  this  marsh-grass  any  longer ;  hel})  me  to  load  uj). 
I'll  take  the  baggage,  and  you  the  boat," 


NUMBER   FIVE. 


1S3 


"  You'll  never  get  through  with  it,  if  you  try  to  take 
it  all  at  once.  Better  load  light,  and  I'll  come  back  after 
what's  left,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  tell  you,"  he  continued, 
"the  swamp  is  full  of  water,  and  soft  as  muck." 

"  John,"  said  I,  "that  baggage  is  going  over  at  one  load, 
sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish.  I'll  make 
the  attempt,  swamp  or  no  swamp.  My  life  is  assured 
against  accidents  by  fire,  water,  and  mud  ;  so  here  goes. 
AVhat's  life  to  glory  !  "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  seized  the  pork- 
bag,  and  dragged  it  from  under  the  boat ;  "  stand  by  and 
see  me  put  my  armor  on." 

Over  my  back  I  slung  the  provision  basket,  made  like 
a  fisherman's  creel,  thirty  inches  by  forty,  filled  with 
plates,  coffee,  salt,  and  all  the  impedimenta  of  camp  and 
cooking  utensils.  This  was  held  in  its  place  by  straps 
passing  over  the  shoulders  and  under  the  arms,  like  a 
Jew-pedler's  pack.  There  might  have  been  eighty  pounds' 
weight  in  it.  Upon  the  top  of  the  basket,  John  lashed 
my  knapsack,  full  of  bullets,  powder,  and  clothing.  My 
rubber  suit  and  heavy  blanket,  slung  around  my  neck 
by  a  leather  thong,  hung  down  in  front  across  my  chest. 
On  one  shoulder  the  oars  and  paddles  were  balanced, 
with  a  frying-pan  and  gridiron  swinging  from  the  blades  ; 
on  the  other  was  my  rifle,  from  which  were  suspended 
a  pair  of  boots,  my  creel,  a  coflee-pot,  and  a  bag  of  flour. 

Taking  up  the  bag  of  pork  in  one  hand,  and  seizing 
the  stock  of  the  rifle  with  the  other,  from  two  fingers  of 
Avhieh  hung  a  tin  kettle  of  prepared  trout,  wliich  we  were 
loath  to  throw  away,  I  started.  Picture  a  man  so  loaded, 
forcing  his  way  through  a  hemlock  swamp,  tlirough  whose 
floor  of  thin  moss  he  sank  to  his  knees ;  or  picking  his 
way  across  oozy  sloughs  on  old  roots,  often  covered  with 
mud  and  water,  and  slip|)cry  beyond  description,  and  you 
have  me  dagucrrcotyi)ed  in  your  mind.  Well,  as  I  said, 
I  started. 

For  some  dozen  rods  I  got  on  famously,  and  was  con- 
gratulating myself  with  the  thought  of  an  easy  transit 
when  a  root  upon  which  I  had  put  my  right  foot  gave 


184  ONE    nUNDKED    CUOlLK    SKLECTIONS 

way,  and,  plunging  headlong  into  the  mud,  I  struck  an 
attitude  of  petition  ;  while  the  frying-pan  and  gridiron, 
Hung  off  the  oars  and  forward  by  the  movement,  alighted 
upon  my  prostrated  head.  An  ejaculation,  not  exactly 
religious,  escaped  me,  and  with  a  few  desperate  flounces 
I  assumed  once  more  the  perpendicular.  Fishing  the 
frying  pan  from  the  mud,  and  lashing  the  gridiron  to  my 
belt,  I  made  another  start.     It  was  hard  work. 

The  most  unnatural  adjustment  of  weight  upon  my 
back  made  it  difficult  to  ascertain  just  how  far  behind 
me  lay  the  centre  of  equilibrium.  I  found  where  it  did 
not  lie  several  times.  Bfifore  I  had  gone  fifty  rods  the 
camp-basket  weighed  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 
The  pork-bag  felt  as  if  it  had  several  shoats  in  it,  and 
the  oar-blades  stuck  out  in  the  exact  form  of  an  X.  If 
I  went  one  side  of  a  tree,,  the  oars  would  go  the  other 
side.  If  I  backed  up,  they  would  manage  to  get  entan- 
gled amid  the  brush.  If  I  stumbled  and  fell,  the  con- 
founded things  would  come  like  a  goose-poke  athwart 
my  neck,  pinning  me  down. 

As  I  proceeded,  the  mud  grew  deeper,  the  roots  farther 
apart,  and  the  blazed  trees  less  frequent.  Never  before 
did  I  so  truly  realize  the  aspiration  of  the  old  hymn, — 

"  Oh,  had  I  the  wingi  of  a  dove  ! " 

At  last  I  reached  what  seemed  impossible  to  pass, — 
an  oozy  slough,  crossed  here  and  there  by  cedar  roots, 
smooth  and  slippery,  lay  before  me.  From  a  high  stump 
which  I  had  climbed  upon  I  gave  a  desperate  leap.  I 
struck  where  I  expected,  and  a  little  farther.  The  weight 
of  the  basket,  which  was  now  something  over  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  was  too  much  for  me  to  check  at  once.  It 
pressed  me  forward.  I  recovered  myself,  and  the  abomi- 
nable oars  carried  me  as  far  the  other  way.  The  mocca- 
sins of  wet  leather  began  to  slip  along  the  roots.  They 
began  to  slip  very  often,  and  at  bad  times.  I  ftund  it 
necessary  to  change  my  position  suddenly.  I  changed 
it.  It  wasn't  a  perfect  success.  I  tried  again.  It  seemed 
necessary  to  keep  on  trying. 


NUMBEU   FIVE.  185 

I  suspect  I  did  not  effect  the  changes  very  steadily,  for 
the  trout  began  to  jump  about  in  the  pail  and  fly  out  in- 
to the  mud.  The  gridiron  got  uneasy,  and  played  against 
my  side  like  a  sleam-flapper.  In  fact,  the  whole  baggage 
seemed  endowed  with  supernatural  powers  of  motion. 
The  excitement  was  contagious.  In  a  moment,  every 
article  was  jumping  about  like  mad.  I,  in  the  meantime, 
continued  to  dance  a  hornpipe  on  the  slippery  roots. 

Now  I  am  conscientiously  opposed  to  dancing.  I  never 
danced.  I  didn't  want  to  learn.  I  felt  it  was  wicked 
for  me  to  be  hopping  around  on  that  root  so.  What  an 
example,  I  thought,  if  John  should  see  me !  What  would 
my  wife  say?  What  w^ould  my  deacons  say?  I  tried 
to  stop.  I  couldn't.  I  had  an  astonishing  dislike  to  sit- 
ting down.  I  thought  I  would  dance  there  forever,  rather 
than  sit  down, — deacons  or  no  deacons. 

The  basket  now  weighed  any  imaginable  number  of 
pounds.  The  trout  were  leaping  about  my  head,  as  if 
in  their  native  element.  The  gridiron  was  in  such  rapid 
motion  that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  bars. 
There  was,  apparently,  a  whole  litter  of  pigs  in  the  pork- 
bag.  I  could  not  stand  it  longer.  I  concluded  to  rest 
awhile.  I  wanted  to  do  the  thing  gracefully.  I  looked 
around  for  a  soft  spot,  and,  seeing  one  just  behind  me,  I 
checked  myself  My  feet  flew  out  from  under  me.  They 
appeared  to  be  unusually  light.  I  don't  remember  that 
I  ever  sat  down  quicker.  The  motion  was  very  decided. 
The  only  difficulty  I  observed  was,  that  the  seat  I  had 
gracefully  settled  into  had  no  bottom. 

The  position  of  things  was  extremely  picturesque.  The 
oars  were  astride  my  neck,  as  usual.  The  trout-pail  was 
bottom  up,  and  the  contents  lying  about  almost  anywhere. 
The  boots  were  hanging  on  a  dry  limb  overhead.  A  cap- 
ital idea, — I  thought  of  it  as  I  wns  in  the  act  of  sitting 
down.  One  piece  of  pork  lay  at  my  feet,  and  another 
was  sticking  up,  some  ten  feet  off,  in  the  mud.  It  looked 
very  rjiieer, — sliglitlv  out  of  place.  Willi  t\\v.  same  mo- 
ti<jn  with  wliirh  I  liimg  my  boots  tm  a  lindj,  as  I  seated 


186  ONE   HUXDRED   CITOICE   SELECTIONS 

myself,  I  stuck  my  rifle  carefully  iuto  the  mud,  muzzle 
duwiiwjird.  I  never  saw  a  gun  in  that  position  before. 
It  struck  me  as  being  a  good  thing.  There  was  no  dan- 
ger of  its  falling  over  and  breaking  the  stock.  The  firet 
thing  I  did  was  to  pass  the  gridiron  under  me.  When 
that  feat  had  been  accomplished,  I  felt  more  composed. 
It's  pleasant  for  a  man  in  the  position  I  was  in  to  feel 
that  he  has  something  under  him.  Even  a  chip  or  a  small 
stump  would  have  felt  comfortable.  As  I  sat  thinking 
how  many  uses  a  gridiron  could  be  put  to,  and  estimat- 
ing where  I  should  then  have  been,  if  I  hadn't  got  it  un- 
der me,  I  heard  John  forcing  his  way,  with  the  boat  on 
his  back,  through  the  thick  undergrowth. 

"  It  won't  do  to  let  John  see  me  in  this  position,"  I 
said  ;  and  so,  with  a  mighty  eflbrt,  I  disengaged  myself 
from  the  pack,  flung  off' the  blanket  from  around  my  neck, 
and,  seizing  hold  of  a  spruce  limb,  which  I  could  fortu- 
nately reach,  drew  myself  slowly  up.  I  had  just  time 
to  jerk  the  rifle  out  of  the  mud,  and  fish  up  about  half 
of  the  trout,  when  John  came  struggling  along. 

"  John,"  said  I,  leaning  unconcernedly  against  a  tree, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened, — "  John,  put  down  the  boat, 
here's  a  splendid  spot  to  rest." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Murxay,"  queried  John,  as  he  emerged 
from  under  the  boat,  "how  are  you  getting  along?" 

"  Capitally !  "  said  I ;  "the  carry  is  very  level  when 
you  once  get  down  to  it.  I  felt  a  little  out  of  breath, 
and  thought  I  would  wait  for  you  a  few  moments." 

"  What's-  your  boots  doing  up  there  in  that  tree  ?  "  ex- 
alaimed  John,  as  he  pointed  up  to  where  they  hung  dan- 
gling from  the  limb,  about  fifteen  feet  above  our  heads. 
"  Boots  doing !  "  said  I,  "  why  they  are  hanging  there, 
don't  you  see  ?  You  didn't  suppose  I'd  drop  them  into 
this  mud,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  replied  John,  "I  don't  suppose  you  would ; 
but  how  about  this  ?  "  he  continued,  as  he  stooped  down 
and  pulled  a  big  trout,  tail  foremost,  out  of  the  soft  muck ; 
"  how  did  that  trout  come  there  ?  " 


'  NUldBERFIVE.  187 

"  It  must  have  got  out  of  the  pail,  somehow,"  I  respond- 
ed. "  I  thought  I  heard  something  drop  just  as  1  sat 
down." 

"What  in  thunder  is  that,  out  there?"  exclaimed 
John,  pointing  to  a  piece  of  pork,  one  end  of  which  was 
sticking  about  four  inches  out  of  the  water ;  is  that  pork  ?" 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  John,  returned  I,  speaking  with  the 
utmost  gravity,  and  in  a  tone  intended  to  suggest  a  mys- 
tery,— "  the  tact  is,  John,  I  don't  quite  understand  it. 
This  carry  seems  to  be  all  covered  over  with  pork.  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  to  find  a  piece  anywhere.  There 
is  another  junk,  now,"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  plunged  my 
moccasin  into  the  mud  and  kicked  a  two-pound  bit  to- 
ward liim  ;  "  it's  lying  all  around  here  loose." 

I  thought  John  would  split  with  laughter,  but  ray  time 
came,  for  as  in  one  of  his  paroxysms  he  turned  partly 
around,  I  saw  that  his  back  was  covered  with  mud  clear 
up  to  his  hat. 

"  Do  you  always  sit  down  on  your  coat,  John,"  I  in- 
quired, "when  you  cross  a  carry  like  this  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,"  rejoined  he,  ceasing  to  laugh  from  very  . 
exhaustion,  "take  a  knife  or  tin   plate,  and  scrape  the 
muck  from   my  back.      I  always  tell  my  wife  to  make 
my  clothes  a  ground  color,  but  the  color  is  laid  on  a  lit- 
tle too  thick  this  time,  any  way." 

"  John  "  said  I,  after  having  scraped  him  down,  "take 
the  paddle  and  spear  my  boots  off  from  that  limb  up 
there,  while  I  tread  out  this  pork." 

Plunging  into  the  slough,  balancing  here  on  a  bog  and 
there  on  an  underlying  root,  I  succeeded  in  concentrat- 
ing the  scattered  pieces  at  one  point.  As  I  was  shying 
the  last  junk  into  the  bag,  a  disappointed  grunt  from  John 
caused  me  to  look  around.  I  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance.  The  boots  were  still  suspended  from  the  limb. 
The  paddle  and  two  oars  had  followed  suit,  and  lay  cos- 
ily amid  the  branches,  while  John,  poising  himself  dex- 
terously on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  spruce,  red  in  the  face 
and  vexed  at  his  want  of  success,  was  whirling  the  fry- 


188  ONE    nUNDKKD   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

ing-pan  over  his  head,  in  the  very  act  of  letting  it  drive 
at  the  boots. 

"  Go  in,  John  !  "  I  shouted,  seizing  hold  of  the  grid- 
iron with  one  hand  and  a  bag  of  bullets  with  the  other, 
while  tear?)  stood  in  my  eyes  from  very  laughter ;  "when 
we've  got  all  the  rest  of  the  baggage  up  in  that  hemlock, 
I'll  pass  up  the  boat,  and  we'll  make  a  camp." 

The  last  words  were  barely  off  my  lips,  when   John^ 
having  succeeded  in  getting  a  firm  footing,  as  he  thought, 
on  the  slippery  bark,  threw  all  his  strength  into  the  cast, 
and  away  the  big  iron  pan  went  whizzing  up  through  the 
branches.     But,  alas  for  human  calcuhition  !    the  rotten 
bark  under  his  feet,  rent  by  the  sudden  pressure  as  he 
pitched  the  cumbrous  missile  upward,  parted  from  the 
smooth  wood,  and  John,  with  a  mighty  thump  which 
seemed  almost  to  snap  his  head  off,  came  down  upon  the 
trunk ;    while  the   frying-pan,  gyrating  like  a  broken- 
winged  bird,  landed  rods  away  in  the  marsh.     By  this 
time  John's  blood  was  up,  and  the  bombardment  began 
in  earnest.     The  first  thing  he  laid  his  hand  on  was  the 
cjffee-pot.     I  followed  suit  with  the  gridiron.    Then  my 
fishing-basket  and  a  bag  of  bullets   mounted   upward. 
Never  before  was  such  a  battle  waged,  or  such  weapons 
used.     The  air  was  full  of  missiles.    Tin  plates,  oar-locks, 
the  axe,  gridiron,  and  pieces  of  pork,  were  all  in  the  air 
at  once.     How  long  the  contest  would  have  continued  I 
cannot  tell,  had  it  not  been  brought  to  a  glorious  termi- 
nation ;  for  at  last  the  heavy  iron  camp-kettle,  hurled 
by  John's  nervous  wrist,  striking  the  limb  fair,  crashed 
through  like  a  forty-pound  shot,  and  down  came  boots, 
oars,  paddle,  and  all.     Gathering  the  scattered   articles 
together,  we  took  our  respective  burdens  and   pushed 
ahead.     Weary  and  hot,  we  reached  at  length  the  mar- 
gin of  the  swamp,  and  our  feet  stood  once  more  upon 
solid  ground. 

— Adventures  in  the  Wilderness. 


|lart  ^ht 


EcLcK  of  the  Fo'LLT'  JSTizmhers  of 
" lOO  Choice  SelecttoTxs  "  contctirted, 
tn  tlvis  voZizme  is  paged  separcitely, 
CLTid  the  iTcdeiK  is  inctde  to  corres- 
pond tliej^ewitJi.     See  EXPLANATION  otl 

first  page  of  Corttertts. 

TJhe  entire  hook  contains  neavly 
lOOO  pages. 


100 

CHOICE  SELECTIONS. 

No.  6. 


ALL'S  FOR  THE  BEST.— M.  F.  Tuppee. 

All's  for  the  best!  be  sanguine  and  cheerful, 

Trouble  and  sorrow  are  friends  in  disguise ; 
Nothing  but  folly  goes  faithless  and  fearful, 

Courage  forever  is  happy  and  wise  ; 
All's  for  the  best — if  a  man  could  but  know  it , 

Providence  wishes  us  all  to  be  blest ; 
This  is  no  dream  of  the  pundit  or  poet, 

Heaven  is  gracious,  and  all's  for  the  best ! 

All's  for  the  best!  set  this  on  your  standard, 

Soldier  of  sadness,  or  pilgrim  of  love, 
Who  to  the  shores  of  desi)air  may  have  wandered, 

A  waywearied  swallow,  or  heart-stricken  dove. 
All's  for  the  best !  be  a  man,  but  confiding, 

Providence  tenderly  governs  the  rest. 
And  the  frail  bark  of  his  creature  is  guiding 

Wisely  and  warily, — all's  for  the  best. 

All's  for  the  best!  then  fling  away  terrors. 

Meet  all  your  fears  and  your  foes  in  the  van, 
And  in  tlu;  midst  of  your  dangers  or  errors, 

Trust  like  a  child,  while  you  strive  like  a  man. 
All's  for  tlie  best!  unbiassed,  unbounded. 

Providence  reigns  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
And  by  both  wisdom  and  mercy  surrounded, 

Hope  and  be  happy,  for  all's  for  the  best! 
II*  7 


8  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


A  MINISTER'S  QUARTER  PAY-DAY. 

As  the  Parson  sat  at  his  books  one  day 

A  rap  at  his  door  heard  he  ; 
The  Parislx  Collector  had  called  to  pay 

The  Society's  quarter  fee. 
A  hundred  dollars,  and  fifty  more, 

Were  counted  the  parson's  due, 
Though  small  sum  this,  for  half  a  score, 

To  victual  and  clothe  and  shoe. 

But  the  day  had  come,  and  for  youthful  sport 

The  parsonage  ne'er  displayed 
A  day  like  that,  when  this  scant  support 

Was  about  to  be  promptly  paid. 
The  children  danced,  and  giggled,  and  grinned, 

And  wriggled  like  eels  in  oil  ; 
And  smiles  broke  forth  on  the  visage  thinned 

By  fasting,  and  tears,  and  toil. 

The  Parish  Collector  sat  him  down. 

And  out  of  his  pocket  took 
The  tithes  he'd  gathered  about  the  town, 

Crammed  into  his  pocket-book. 
It  was  not  much  of  a  cram  at  that, 

Though  honey  and  milk  indeed  ; 
Not  milk  enough  for  a  starving  cat, 

Nor  honey  enough  for  need. 

But  such  as  it  was,  without  much  risk, 

The  Collector  poured  it  out ; 
He  spread  it  round  on  the  parson's  desk, 

And  scattered  it  all  about ; 
But  little  of  shining  gold  was  there. 

And  less  from  the  silver  mine  ; 
And  bank  bills— they  were  exceeding  rarei 

Alas  I  for  the  poor  divine. 

First  came  a  note  for  a  little  sum,  ^ 

Which  the  poor  man  late  had  given 
To  a  rich  parishioner,  near  his  home. 

Whom  he  hoped  to  meet  in  heaven  ; 
Ten  dollars  was  all— not  much,  I  know, 

But  an  order  followed  the  note. 
With  butcher's  bill,  and  a  bill  or  so 

For  butter  and  bread,  to  boot. 


NUMBER  SIX.  9 

The  doctor  had  drawn  for  his  small  amount, 

The  grocer  had  tiled  his  claim, 
And  all  intended  their  bills  should  count 

Whenever  his  pa3'-day  came. 
The  good  collector  reckoned  them  up; 

The  minister  stood  aghast ! 
'Twas  a  bitter  drug  in  his  brimming  cup 

To  think  he  had  lived  so  last. 

Who  knows  what  pain  the  Parson  endures 

As  the  good  man  hands  them  o'er, 
And  says  with  a  hem,  "  8ir,  these  are  yours, 

And  they  should  have  been  paid  bi-Jore  ; 
For  a  scandal  it  is  to  religion,  sir, 

Which  the  world  can  never  forget, 
When  a  man  of  ease  like  a  minister, 

Is  unable  to  pay  a  debt. 
"  And  here,  besides,  is  a  lot  of  cash, — 

Three  fives  and  a  lusty  ten ; 
Your  daughters  in  satin  now  may  dash, 

And  your  boys  dress  up  like  men. 
But  allow  me  to  say,  good  Parson  Gay, 

You'd  better  just  lay  aside 
A  little  of  this  for  a  rainy  day 

By  a  walk  instead  of  a  ride. 
"  For  money  is  scarce,  and  the  times  are  hard. 

And  you,  sir,  are  getting  gray. 
And  you  may  not  fare  as  you  here  have  fared 

Should  the  people  turn  you  away. 
We've  given  you  here  a  large  support, 

And  the  farmers  all  complain 
That  the  crops  this  year  will  be  dreadful  short 

If  we  don't  soon  have  some  rain. 
"  We  can't  long  pay  such  enormous  sums 

As  we  have  to  pay  you  now. 
For  you  know  the  pay-day  often  comes, 

And  the  Squire  has  lost  a  cow  ; 
And  one  of  old  Goodwin's  sheep  is  dead. 

And  he  feels  poor  this  year  ;" 
The  tender  shepherd  luire  turned  his  head, 

To  droj) — for  the  shec]) — a  tear ! 
Of  this  the  Collector  no  note  took ; 

He  gabbled  his  story  through. 
Then  slowly  folded  his  pocket-])Ook, 

And  looked  as  if  he  knew.  i* 


10  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

He  took  his  hat  with  a  cheerful  smile, 

Rejoicing  in  duty  clone ; 
Then  rode  away  to  his  home,  a  mile, 

At  set  of  December's  sun. 
The  Parson  rose  as  he  left  the  room, 

And  bowed  with  a  smile  of  grace  ; 
But  his  heart  resembled  a  ruined  tomb 

In  spite  of  his  smiling  face. 
He  closed  his  door,  and  resumed  his  chair, 

Till,  amid  his  griefs  and  fears. 
He  seemed  half  choked  for  a  breath  of  air. 

Then  burst  in  a  flood  of  tears. 
He  thought  of  his  children's  needy  feet, 

His  barrel  of  meal  was  gone ; 
And  the  question  arose,  "  What  shall  we  eat? 

What  raiment  shall  we  put  on?" 
He  thought  of  the  ravens,  how  they're  fed. 

How  the  lilies'  garments  grow  ; 
But  when  was  a  raven's  rent  unpuidf 

Or  a  lily  arrayed  for  snow  ? 
With  tender  emotions  all  astir 

In  the  Parson's  heaving  breast, 
His  children's  mother— he  thought  of  her 

How  she,  who  had  done  her  best. 
Still  needed  a  hood,  and  cloth,  and  thread, 

A  dress,  and  a  thicker  shawl ; 
Till,  pressed  in  spirit,  he  knelt  and  prayed 

To  the  glorious  Lord  of  all. 
The  evening  came,  and  he  met  his  wife, 

And  his  blooming  children  nine ; 
Yet  naught  they  saw  of  the  inward  strife 

That  harassed  the  sad  divine. 
He  sat  serene  in  the  central  seat, 

And  his  wife  sewed  near  his  side ; 
His  children  hovered  about  his  feet, 

And  he  to  be  cheerful  tried. 
But  when  he  went  to  his  nightly  bed, 

To  sleep  till  the  waking  morn, 
He  felt,  as  he  pillowed  his  aching  head, 

That  he  wished  he  had  ne'er  been  born, 
And  all  that  night  was  his  pillow  drowned 

With  the  tears  no  eye  could  see 
But  His  who  once  for  the  thankless  groaned 

And  bled  upon  Calvary's  tree. 


NUMBER  SIX.  11 

ELOQUENCE. -Lewis  Cass. 

What  country  ever  offered  a  uobler  theatre  for  the 
display  of  eloquence  than  our  own  ?  From  the  primary 
assemblies  of  the  people,  where  power  is  conferred,  and 
may  be  retained,  to  the  national  legislature,  where  its 
highest  attributes  are  deposited  and  exercised,  all  feel  and 
acknowledge  its  influence. 

The  master  spirits  of  our  father-land,  they  who  guided 
the  councils  of  England  in  her  career  of  prosperity  and 
glory,  whose  eloquence  was  the  admiration  of  their  con- 
temporaries, as  it  will  be  of  posterity,  were  deeply  imbued 
with  classical  learning.  They  drank  at  the  fountain  and 
not  at  the  stream,  and  they  led  captive  the  public  opinion 
of  the  empire,  and  asserted  their  dominion  in  the  senate 
and  the  cabinet. 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  contribution  to  the  gen- 
eral stock  of  eloquence.  In  our  legislative  assemblies,  at 
the  bar,  and  in  the  pulpit,  many  examples  are  before  us, 
not  less  cheering  in  the  rewards  they  offer  than  in  the 
renown  which  follows  them.  And  if  our  lamps  are  lighted 
at  the  altar  of  ancient  and  modern  learning,  we  may  hope 
that  a  sacred  fire  will  be  kept  burning,  to  shed  its  influence 
upon  our  institutions  and  the  duration  of  the  Republic. 

But  after  all,  habits  of  mental  and  moral  discipline  are 
the  first  great  objects  in  any  system  of  instruction,  public 
Of  private.  The  value  of  education  depends  far  less  upon 
varied  and  extensive  acquirements  than  upon  the  cultiva- 
tion of  just  powers  of  thought  and  the  general  regulation 
of  the  faculties  of  the  understanding.  That  it  is  not  the 
amount  of  knowledge,  but  thp  capacity  to  apply  it,  which 
promises  success  and  usefulness  in  life,  is  a  truth  that 
cannot  be  too  often  inculcated  by  instructors  and  recol- 
lected by  pupils. 

If  youth  are  taught  how  to  think,  they  will  soon  learn 
v)hat  to  think.  Exercise  is  not  more  necessary  to  a 
healthful  state  of  the  body  than  is  the  employment  of  the 


12  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

various  faculties  of  the  mind  to  mental  efficiency.  The 
practical  sciences  are  as  barren  of  useful  products  as  the 
speculative,  where  facts  only  are  the  objects  of  knowledge, 
unless  the  understanding  is  habituated  to  a  continued  pro- 
cess of  examination  and  reflection. 

No  precocity  of  intellect,  no  promise  of  genius,  no  extent 
of  knowledge,  can  be  weighed  in  the  scale  with  those 
acquisitions.  But  he  who  has  been  the  object  of  such 
sedulous  attention,  and  the  subject  of  such  a  course  of 
instruction,  may  enter  upon  the  great  duties  of  life  with 
every  prospect  of  an  honorable  and  useful  career.  His 
armor  is  girded  on  for  battle.  However  difficult  the  con- 
juncture in  which  he  may  be  called  on  to  act,  he  is 
prepared  for  whatever  may  betide  him. 


VAT  HAVE  I  GOT  TO  PAY?— W.  II.  Freeman. 

A  sailor  once,  his  pockets  filled  with  gold, 

Having  once  heard  the  sights  of  London  told, 

Determined  that  the  joys  of  town  he'd  taste. 

And  thither  go  with  all  convenient  haste ; 

But  first  he  says,  "Avast,  and  let  me  see, 

What  though  I  am  inclined  a  fool  to  be, 

Shiver  my  timbers  if  I  throw  away 

My  cash,  and  save  none  for  a  rainy  day; 

In  vain  to  Portsmouth  I  may  try  to  steer 

Without  the  comfort  of  a  drop  of  beer — 

On  rocks  and  quicksands  I  may  chance  to  run, 

And  founder  in  the  midst  of  all  my  fun! 

Stop,  splice  my  mainsails,  if  I've  not  a  thought. 

Which,  if  I'm  cast  away,  may  yield  sujiport." 

Inspired  by  grog,  he  makes  no  longer  stay. 

But  mounts  the  upper  deck  and  sails  away. 

The  stage  drives  on — now,  to  change  horses  stays, 

While  Jack  with  pride  his  purse  of  gold  surveys. 

"Bring  me  a  glass  of  grog !"  he  loudly  cries. 

The  waiter  on  the  errand  briskly  flies; 

Sly  Jack,  the  landlord  takes  aside  alone, 

And  thus  begins  his  tale  in  under-tone : — 

"I'm  on  a  cruise  to  town,  d'ye  hear,  my  friend. 

And  to  cast  anchor  some  short  time  intend ; 


■jJUMBER  SIX.  13 

But  should  I  chance  somehow  to  run  aground, 
I  then  immediately  am  homeward  bound ; 
But  that,  d'ye  see,  no  evil  may  betide, 
I  for  my  voyage  back  will  thus  provide : — 
I'  11  pay  you  double  now  for  all  I  have, 
And  a  secure  return  by  this  means  save; 
And  mark,  when  back  to  port  I'm  on  my  way, 
I  merely  ask  what  bave  I  got  to  pay — 
And  on" my  stick  by  twirling  thus  my  hat, 
You  surely  will  the  arrangement  not  forget." 
Thus  'twas  agreed,  and  at  each  house  he  stayed, 
With  every  landlord  this  same  bargain  made. 

In  town  arrived,  poor  Jack,  on  frolic  bent. 
Became  an  easy  dupe,  his  money  spent. 
And  when  he  found  his  only  shilling  gone, 
Mounted  the  self  same  coach  to  reach  his  home. 
One  of  the  tribe  of  Israel,  who  sat 
By  Jack,  and  saw  the  wonders  of  the  hat. 
Felt  all  his  conscience  go,  and  how  to  obtain 
This  wondrous  hat,  now  puzzled  much  his  brain. 
"  Vy,  plesh  my  heart,"  he  cried,  in  great  amaze, 
"  Not  for  one  single  thing  this  sailor  pays ; 
I  do  not  understand  why  for  is  dat, 
Unless  dere  be  some  witchcraft  in  de  hat ; 
If  I  could  get  dat  hat  vat  would  I  give, 
'Twould  keep  me  all  the  days  vat  I  shall  live." 

At  length,  in  undervoice,  to  Jack  he  said, 

"  Dat  is  a  shabby  hat  upon  your  head  ; 

Now  I'll  sell  you  a  new  one,  if  you  please, 

If  you  and  I  for  dat  old  hat  agrees; 

Vat  vill  you  take?" — Jack  plainly  saw  his  aim. 

And  said,  "  If  you  will  give  what  I  shall  name, 

The  hat  is  yours — you  see  its  use,  no  doubt, 

So  either  give  my  price  or  go  without; 

You've  got  a  watch,  I  want  one,  give  me  that. 

And  for  ten  pounds  beside  I'll  sell  the  hat." 

"  What !"  cried  the  Jew,  "  Eh,  vere's  your  conscience 

gone? 
Ten  poumls  for  that  old  slial)by  hat  alone." 
"  Ten  pound !"  bawls  Jack,  "  and  just  what  I  have  said, 
Or  not  for  you  the  hat  comes  off  my  head." 
The  Jew  then  gave  the  watch,  besides  ten  pounds. 
And  scarcely  could  he  keep  his  joy  in  bounds. 


14  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

At  the  first  inn,  he  stops  and  takes  a  chair, 

Determined  he  will  end  his  journey  there; 

"  Here,  vaiter,  here !"  he  bawls,  "  1  want  to  dine, 

Make  haste  and  bring  a  bottle  of  good  wine ; 

Bring  me  Champagne,  for  1  would  have  you  know, 

Dat  I  can  pay,  you  dog,  where'er  I  go ; 

I've  got  de  cash — dat  is,  I've  bought  de  hat; 

Look  here — look  here — there,  vat  d'ye  think  of  dat?" 

His  dinner  ended,  loud  he  calls,  "  I  say. 
Here,  vaiter,  here,  vat  have  I  got  to  pay?" 
And  on  his  stick  twirling  the  sailor's  hat. 
Exulting  cries,  "There!  vat  do  you  think  of  dat? 
Eh,  eh !  dis  hat  'twill  pay  for  everything, 
I  would  not  part  with  it  to  be  a  king. " 
Tlie  waiter,  wondering  at  the  whim  he  sees. 
Replies,  "  Two  pounds  your  reck'ning,  if  you  please." 
"  Eh  ?  what !  two  pounds !  what  impudence  is  r'at? 
Look  here,  you  dog,  d'ye  see?  Behold  de  hat! 
Dis  hat's  mine,  now;  dis  hat  is  mine, you  know; 
Dere,  dere,  see  dere — vat  have  I  got  to  pay  now?" 
The  waiter,  laughing,  cries,  "  The  sailor's  hat. 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  I  see  now  what  you  are  at." 
The  Jew  enraged,  when  the  deceit  he  knew. 
Straight  at  the  waiter's  head  the  hat  he  threw, 
And  madly  from  the  house  he  ran  away, 
Still  bawling  out,  "Vat  have  I  got  to  pay?" 


DERMOT'S  PARTING. 


Oh    waken  up,  my  darlin' — my  Dermot,  it  is  day, — 
TJi  rday,  when  from  the  mother's  eyes  the  real  light  dies  away; 
For  ivhat  will  daylight  be  to  me  that  never  more  will  see 
The  fair  face  of  my  Dermot  come  smilin'  back  to  me? 
Arise,  my  son,  the  morning  red  is  wearing  fast  away, 
And  through  the  gray  mist  I  can  see  the  masts  rock  in  the  bay. 
Before  the  sea-fog  clears  the  hill,  my  darlin'  must  depart — 
But  oh,  the  cloud  will  never  lift  that  wraps  the  mother's 
heart ! 

Sure,  then,  I'm  old  and  foolish;  what's  this  I'm  saying  now? 
Will  I  see  my  fair  son  leave  me  with  a  shadow  on  his  brow? 
Oh,  no!  we'll  bear  up  bravely,  and  make  no  stir,  nor  moan; 
There  will  be  time  for  weepin'  when  my  fair  son  shall  be  gone. 


NUMBEB  SIX.  15 

I've  laid  the  old  coat  ready,  dear ;  my  pride  this  day  has  been 
That  on  your  poor  apparel  shall  no  rent  nor  stain  be  seen. 
And  let  me  tie  that  'kerchief,  too ;  it's  badly  done,  I  fear, 
But  my  old  hands  tremble  sadly,  vnth  the  hurry,  Dermot,  dear. 

And  are  you  ready,  darlin'?    Turn  round  and  bid  farewell 
To  the  roof-tree  of  the  cabin  that  has  sheltered  us  so  well ; 
Leave  a  blessing  on  the  threshold,  and  on  the  old  hearth- 
stone,— 
'Twill  be  a  comfort  to  my  heart  when  I  sit  there  alone. 
And  often  at  the  twilight  hour,  when  day  and  work  are  done, 
I'll  dream  the  old  time's  back  again,  when  you  were  there, 

my  son, — 
When  you  were  there,  a  little  thing  that  prattled  at  my  knee, 
Long  ere  the  evil  days  had  come  to  part  my  child  and  me. 

The  dear  arm  is  still  round  me,  the  dear  hand  guides  me  still ; 
'Tis  but  a  little  step  to  go — see,  now  we've  gained  the  hill ; 
Is  that  the  vessel,  Dermot,  dear? — the  mist  my  eyesight  dims — 
Oh,  shame  upon  me  now !  what  means  this  trembling  in  my 

limbs  ? 
My  child !  my  child !  oh,  let  me  weep  awhile  upon  your  breast ; 
Would  I  were  in  my  grave !  for  then  my  heart  would  be  at 

rest; 
But  now  the  hour  is  come,  and  I  must  stand  upon  the  shore 
And  see  the  treasure  of  my  soul  depart  for  evermore  I 

I  know,  my  child ! — I  know  it,  the  folly  and  the  sin, — 
But  oh !  I  think  my  heart  would  burst  to  keep  this  anguish 

in. 
To  think  how  in  yon  sleeping  town  such  happy  mothers  be, 
Who  keep  their  many  sons  at  home,  while  I — I  had  but  thee! 
But  I  have  done ;  I  murmur  not ;  I  kiss  the  chastening  rod. 
Upon  this  hill — as  Abraham  did — I  give  my  child  to  Godl 
But  not,  like  him,  to  welcome  back  the  precious  thing  once 

given ; 
I'll  see  my  fair  son's  face  again — but  not  on  this  side  heaven! 


WHEN.— SnSAN    COOLIDGE. 

If  I  were  told  that  I  must  die;  to-morrow. 

That  the  next  sun 
Which  sinks  should  bear  me  i)ast  all  fear  and  sorrovr 

For  any  one. 
All  the  fight  fought,  all  tlie  short  journey  through, 

What  should  I  do? 


16  ONE   HUNDRED    CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  shrink  or  falter, 

But  just  go  on, 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change  nor  seek  to  alter 

Aught  that  is  gone ; 
But  rise  and  move  and  love  and  smile  and  pray. 

For  one  more  day. 

And,  lying  down  at  night  for  a  last  sleeping, 

Say  in  that  ear 
Which  hearkens  ever:  "  Lord,  within  thy  keeping 

How  should  I  fear? 
And,  when  to-morrow  brings  Thee  nearer  still, 

Do  Thou  thy  will." 

I  might  not  sleep  for  awe ;  but  peaceful,  tender. 

My  soul  would  lie 
All  the  night  long;  and  when  the  morning  splendor 

Fluf^hed  o'er  the  sky, 
I  think  that  I  could  smile,  could  calmly  say, 

"  It  is  his  day." 

But  if  a  wondrous  hand  from  the  blue  yonder 

Held  out  a  scroll. 
On  which  my  life  was  writ,  and  I  with  wonder 

Beheld  unroll 
To  a  long  century's  end  its  mystic  clue, 

What  should  I  do? 

What  cotUd  I  do,  0  blessed  Guide  and  Master, 

Other  than  this ; 
Still  to  go  on  as  now,  not  slower,  faster. 

Nor  fear  to  miss 
The  road,  although  so  very  long  it  be, 

While  led  by  Thee? 

Step  after  step,  feeling  Thee  close  beside  me, 

Although  unseen. 
Thro'  thorns,  thro'  flowers,  whether  the  tempest  hide  Thee, 

Or  heavens  serene, 
Assured  thy  faithfulness  cannot  betray, 

Thy  love  decay. 

I  may  not  know ;  my  God,  no  hand  revealeth 

Thy  counsels  wise ; 
Along  the  path  a  deepening  shadow  stealeth, 

No  voice  replies 
To  all  my  questioning  thought,  the  time  to  tell. 

And  it  is  well. 


NUMBER  SIX.  17 


Let  me  keep  on,  abiding  and  unfearing 

Thy  will  always, 
Through  a  long  century's  ripening  fruition 

Or  a  short  day's. 
Thou  canst  not  come  too  soon  ;  and  I  can  wait 

If  thou  come  late. 


VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD.— Rev.  John  Gumming. 

We  die,  but  leave  an  influence  behind  us  that  survives. 
The  echoes  of  our  words  are  evermore  repeated  and  re- 
flected along  the  ages.  It  is  what  man  was  that  lives 
and  acts  after  him.  What  he  said  sounds  al(jug  the  years 
like  voices  amid  the  mountain  gorges  ;  and  what  he  did 
is  repeated  after  him  in  ever-multiplying  and  never-ceas- 
ing reverberations.  Every  man  has  left  behind  him  influ- 
ences for  good  or  for  evil  that  will  never  exhaust  them- 
selves. The  sphere  in  which  he  acts  may  be  small,  or  it 
may  be  great.  It  may  be  his  fireside,  or  a  kingdom ; 
it  may  be  a  village,  or  a  great  nation  ;  it  may  be  a  parish, 
or  broad  Europe  ;  but  act  he  does,  ceaselessly  and  forever. 
His  friends,  his  family,  his  successors  in  ofiice,  his  rela- 
tives, are  all  receptive  of  an  influence,  a  moral  influence 
which  he  has  transmitted  and  bequeathed  to  mankind; 
either  a  blessing  which  will  rejx;at  itself  in  showers  of 
benedictions,  or  a  curse  which  will  multiply  itself  in  ever- 
accunmlating  evil. 

Every  man  is  a  missionary,  now  and  forever,  for  good 
or  for  evil,  whether  he  intends  and  designs  it,  or  not.  He 
may  be  a  blot,  radiating  his  dark  influence  outward  to  the 
very  circumference  of  society,  or  he  may  be  a  blessing, 
spreading  benedictions  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
world  ;  hut  a  blank  he  cannot  be.  The  seed  sown  in  life 
springs  up  in  harvests  of  blessings,  or  harvests  of  sorrow. 
Whether  our  influence  be  great  or  small,  whether  it  be  for 
good  or  evil,  it  lasts,  it  lives  somewhere,  within  some 
limit,  and  is  operative  wherever  it  ia.     The  grave  buries 


18  ONE  nONDEED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

the  dead  dust,  but  the  character  walks  the  world,  and  dis- 
tributes itself,  as  a  benediction  or  a  curse,  among  the 
families  of  mankind. 

The  sun  sets  beyond  the  western  hills,  but  the  trail  of 
light  he  leaves  behind  liim  guides  the  pilgrim  to  his 
distant  home.  The  tree  falls  in  the  forest ;  but  in  the 
lapse  of  ages  it  is  turned  into  coal,  and  our  fires  burn  now 
the  brighter  because  it  grew  and  fell.  The  coral  insect 
dies,  but  the  reef  it  raised  breaks  the  surge  on  the  shores 
of  great  continents,  or  has  formed  an  isle  in  the  bosom  of 
the  ocean,  to  wave  with  harvests  for  the  good  of  man. 
We  live  and  we  die  ;  but  the  good  or  evil  that  we  do  lives 
after  us,  and  is  not  "  buried  with  our  bones." 

The  babe  that  perished  on  the  bosom  of  its  mother,  like 
a  flower  that  bowed  its  head  and  drooped  amid  the  death- 
frosts  of  time, — that  babe,  not  only  in  its  image,  but  in  its 
influence,  still  lives  and  speaks  in  the  chambers  of  the 
mother's  heart. 

The  friend  with  whom  we  took  sweet  counsel  is  re- 
moved visibly  from  the  outward  eye;  but  the  lessons 
that  he  taught,  the  grand  sentiments  that  he  uttered,  the 
holy  deeds  of  generosity  by  which  he  was  characterized, 
the  moral  lineaments  and  likeness  of  the  man,  still  survive 
and  appear  in  the  silence  of  eventide,  on  the  tablets  of 
memory,  and  in  the  light  of  morn  and  noon  and  dewy 
eve ;  and,  being  dead,  he  yet  speaks  eloquently,  and  in 
the  midst  of  us. 

Mahomet  still  lives  in  his  practical  and  disastrous  influ- 
ence in  the  East.  Napoleon  still  is  France,  and  France 
is  almost  Napoleon.  Martin  Luther's  dead  dust  sleeps  at 
Wittenburg,  but  Martin  Luther's  accents  still  ring  through 
the  churches  of  Christendom.  Shakespeare,  Byron,  and 
Milton,  all  live  in  their  influence,  for  good  or  evil.  The 
apostle  from  his  chair,  the  minister  from  his  pulpit,  the 
martyr  from  his  flame-shroud,  the  statesman  from  his 
cabinet,  the  soldier  in  the  field,  the  sailor  on  the  deck,  who 
all  have  passed  away  to  their  graves,  still  live  in  the 


NUMBEB  8IX«      *^  19 

practical  deeds  that  tuey  did,  in  the  lives  they  lived,  and 
in  the  powerful  lessons  that  they  left  behind  them. 

"  None  of  us  liveth  to  himself;" — others  are  affected  by 
that  life; — "or  dieth  to  himself;" — others  are  interested 
in  that  death.  Our  queen's  crown  may  moulder,  but  she 
who  wore  it  will  act  upon  the  ages  which  are  yet  to  come. 
The  noble's  coronet  may  be  reft  in  pieces,  but  the  wearer 
of  it  is  now  doing  what  will  be  reflected  by  thousands 
who  will  be  made  and  moulded  by  him.  Dignity,  and 
rank,  and  riches,  are  all  corruptible  and  worthlesG ;  but 
moral  character  has  an  immortality  that  no  sword-point 
can  destroy  ;  that  ever  walks  the  world  and  leaves  lasting 
influences  behind. 

What  we  do  is  transacted  on  a  stage  of  which  all  in  the 
universe  are  spectators.  What  we  say  is  transmitted  in 
echoes  that  will  never  cease.  What  we  are  is  influencing 
and  acting  on  the  rest  of  mankind.  Neutral  we  cannot  be. 
Living  we  act,  and  dead  we  speak ;  and  the  whole  uni- 
verse is  the  mighty  company  forever  looking,  forever 
listening;  and  all  nature  the  tablets  forever  recording  the 
words,  the  deeds,  the  thoughts,  the  passions  of  mankind  ! 

Monuments,  and  columns,  and  statues,  erected  to  heroes, 
poets,  orators,  statesmen,  are  all  influences  that  extend 
into  the  future  ages.  "The  blind  old  man  of  8cio's rocky 
isle"*  still  speaks.  The  Mantuan  bardf  still  sings  in 
every  school.  Shakspeare,  the  bard  of  Avon,  is  still 
translated  into  every  tongue.  The  philosophy  of  the 
Stagyritel  is  still  felt  in  every  academy.  Whether  these 
influences  are  beneficent  or  the  reverse,  they  are  influences 
fraught  with  power.  How  blest  must  be  the  recollection 
of  those  who,  like  the  setting  sun,  have  left  a  trail  of  light 
behind  them  by  which  others  may  see  the  way  to  that 
rest  which  retiiaincth  for  the  people  of  God  ! 

It  is  only  the  pure  fountain  that  brings  forth  pure 
water.  The  good  tree  only  will  produce  the  good  fruit. 
If  the  centre  from  which  all  proceeds  is  pure  and  holy, 


20  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

the  radii  of  influence  from  it  will  be  pure  and  holy  also. 
Go  forth,  then,  into  the  spheres  that  you  occupy,  the  em- 
ployments, the  trades,  the  professions  of  social  life ;  go 
forth  into  the  high  places,  or  into  the  lowly  places  of  the 
land  ;  mix  with  the  roaring  cataracts  of  social  convulsions, 
or  mingle  amid  the  eddies  and  streamlets  of  quiet  and 
domestic  life  ;  whatever  sphere  you  fill,  carrying  into  it  a 
holy  heart,  you  will  radiate  around  you  life  and  power, 
and  leave  behind  you  holy  and  beneficent  influences. 


THE  DOCTOR  AND  HIS  APPLES. 

What  is  a  sch ool -master  ?     Why,  can't  you  tell  ? 
A  quizzical  old  man 
Armed  with  a  rattan; 
Wears  a  huge  wig, 

And  struts  about; 
Strives  to  look  big, 

With  spectacles  on  snout, 
And  most  important  pout, — 
Who  teaches  little  boys  to  read  and  spell. 

Such  my  description  is,  of  a  man, 

If  not  a  clergyman,  a  layman : — 
So  much  by  way  of  definition, 
And  to  prevent  dull  disquisition, 
We'll  shortly  take  a  new  position. 

A  school-master  (it  mostly  follows) 
Who  keeps  a  S(;hool,  must  have  some  scholars, 
Unless,  indeed  (which  said  at  once  is). 
Instead  of  scholars,  they  are  all  dunces : 
Or  if  this  fancy  more  should  tickle. 
Suppose  them  mixed — like  Indian  pickle. 

One  Dr.  Larrup,  as  depicted  here. 
Who  little  boys  had  flogged  for  many  a  year- 
Not  that  they  wouldn't  learn  tlieir  A  B  C, 
Their  hie,  hccc,  hoc — Syntax  or  Prosody, 
But  that,  despite 
Of  all  his  might, 
And  oft  enforced  rules  of  right. 
They  would  contrive,  by  day  or  night 


NUMBER  SIX. 

To  steal — oh  1  flinty-hearted  sparks, 
Worse  than  to  little  fish  are  sharks 
(Alas!  to  tell  it  my  Muse  -winces), — 
To  steal — his  apples,  pears,  and  quinces. 
Put  them  where'er  he  would,  alike  their  dooms; 
His  efforts  proved  as  fruitless  as  his  rooms. 
As  a  pert  dunghill  cock,  inflamed  with  ire, 
Erects  his  feathers  and  his  comb  of  fire. 
When  of  some  grains,  his  own  by  right, 
He's  robbed  by  foes  that  take  to  flight, — 
So  stood  the  Doctor: 
With  face  as  red 
As  coral  bed, 
His  wig  cocked  forward  in  his  eye. 
As  if  it  there  the  cause  would  spy. 
Had  his  wife  been  there, 
I  do  declare 
It  would  have  shocked  her. 

After  long  buff"eting  in  mental  storm, 

His  brain's  thermometer  fell  from  hot  to  warm : 

At  many  plans  by  turns  he  grapples, 

To  save  his  quinces,  pears,  and  apples : 

When  luckily,  into  his  noddle 

His  recollection  chanced  to  toddle. 

This  sage  informant  told  poor  Larrup, 

If  he'd  convey  his  fruit  so  far  up. 

That  on  his  house's  top  there  stood, 

A  room,  well  floored,  I  think — with  wood. 

'Twas  what  some  folks  a  loft  would  call ; 

The  entrance  through  a  trap-door  small, 

Fixed  in  the  ceiling  of  his  chamber. 

To  which  he  up  a  rope  must  clamber; 

Unless  a  ladder  was  prepared, 

And  then  the  rope's-end  might  be  spared; 

But  lie'd  a  long,  well-practised  knack. 

Of  sparing  neither  rope  nor  back. 

Ye  who  in  proper  titles  glory, 
Will  think,  I  hope,  as  I  have  oft, 
That,  as  this  story's  of  a  loft. 

It  sliould  be  called'a  "  Lufty  Story." 

Well,  I^arruj),  without  more  disputing. 
Fixed  on  thiy  loft  to  put  his  fruit  in; 


22  ONE   HUNDRED   CUOICE  SELECTIONS 

And  quickly  had  it  thither  moved, 
How  far  securely,  must  be  proved. 

From  one  apartment  so  erected 
That  with  the  very  trilling  risk 

Of  dislocating  neck  or  shoulder, 
"Which  boys  ne'er  think  of  in  a  frisk 

(Nay,  oft  it  makes  the  urchins  bolder), 
Adventurous  spirits  might  contrive 
To  reach  the  Doctor's  apple-hive. 
In  this  room  rested  four  or  five 

Of  these  young  pilferers,  undetected. 

Whilst  leaden  sleep  sat  on  the  Doctor's  shutters 
(By  shutters  I  would  here  imply, 

The  lids  that  shut  light  from  the  eye), 
These  daring  rogues  explored  the  tiles  and  gutters 
In  search  of  trap  or  casement — but  alack ! 
They  found  not  e'en  a  small,  a  gracious  crack. 
When  one,  'gainst  every  disappointment  proof, 
Proposed  that  they  should  just— untile  the  roof; 
At  least,  suflicent  space  to  admit 
A  basket,  in  which  one  might  sit; 
And  thus,  by  rope  to  handle  tied, 
Be  lowered  down  with  gentle  ride. 
This  being  approved  of,  'twas  decided 
That  'gainst  next  night,  should  be  provided 
A  basket  and  a  rope ; 
Which  being  in  due  time  effected, 
A  sui>ercargo  was  selected, 
Who,  raised  by  hope. 
Was  gradually  lowered  through  the  hole, 
From  whence  he  sent  up  apples  by  the  shoal. 
This  plan  they  often  put  in  force 
(Not  oftener  than  they  could,  of  course), 
And  when  their  pilfering  job  was  ended, 
The  untiled  roof  they  always  mended. 

The  Doctor  frequent  visits  made, 
And  soon  perceived  his  apples  strayed; 
And  oft  upon  the  school-room  floor, 
Lay  many  a  pear  and  apple  core: 
With  grief  he  viewe  1  these  sad  remains 
Of  what,  to  keep,  he  took  such  pains. 
Despair  now  made  his  heart  its  prey, — 
When,  entering  the  loft,  one  day. 


NUMBER  SIX.  23 

His  ears  had  pretty  ample  proof 

The  rogues  were  breaking  through  the  roof. 

He  wisely,  then,  concealed  himself, — 

When  lo!  down  came  one  little  elf; 

But  he  no  sooner  reach  the  ground  did, 

When  at  him,  out  the  Doctor  bounded, 

And  threatened,  if  he  said  a  sentence, 

He'd  give  him  cause  for  years'  repentance. 

The  boy  stood  mute  as  pewter  pot, 

Wuile  Larrup  in  the  basket  got ; 

When  being  seated  snug  and  steady, 

He  made  his  prisoner  cry,  "All's  ready." 

The  boys  above  began  to  pull, 

"  Bless  me !  the  basket's  very  full." 

"He's  got  a  swinging  lot  this  time." 

"And  I'll  be  bound  he's  picked  the  prime." 

"  To  it  again 

With  might  and  main, 
Another  haul  will  do  the  job." 

"Yo!  yoho! 

Up  we  go !" 
When  lo!  up  popped  the  Doctor's  nob! 
How  they  all  looked  I  can't  express. 
So  leave  that  part  for  you  to  guess ; 
But  you,  perhaps,  may  think  it  right 
To  know  the  end  of  Larrup's  flight. 
Well!  when  they'd  drawn  him  to  the  top, 
Where  he,  most  likely,  wished  to  stop. 
The  wicked  rascals — Id  the  Doctor  drop! 


I  AM  DYING. 

Raise  my  pillow,  husband  dearest. 

Faint  and  fainter  conu^s  my  breath, 
And  the.se  shadows,  stealing  slowly. 

Must,  I  know,  be  those  of  death. 
Sit  down  close  beside  me,  darling. 

Let  me  clasp  thy  warm,  strong  hand, 
Thine  tliat  ever  has  sustained  me 

To  the  borders  of  this  land. 

Fol-  thy  God  and  mine — our  Father — 
Thence  shall  ever  lead  me  on, 

Klf 


24  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Where  upon  a  throne  eternal 

Sits  his  loved  and  only  Son. 
I've  had  visions,  and  been  dreaming 

O'er  the  past  of  joy  and  pain; 
Year  by  year  I've  wandered  backward, 

Till  I  was  a  child  again, — 

Dreams  of  childhood,  and  the  moment 

When  I  stooti  thy  wife  and  bride — 
How  my  heart  thrilled  with  love's  triumph 

In  that  hour  of  woman's  pride ! 
Dreams  of  thee  and  all  the  earth  cords 

Firmly  twined  about  my  heart — 
Oh,  the  bitter,  burning  anguish, 

When  first  I  knew  that  we  must  part  I 

It  has  passed,  and  God  has  promised 

All  thy  footsteps  to  attend  ; 
He  that's  more  than  friend  or  brother, 

He'll  be  with  thee  to  the  end. 
There's  no  shadow  o'er  the  portal 

Leading  to  my  heavenly  home, 
Christ  has  promised  life  immortal, 

And  'tis  he  that  bids  me  come. 

When  life's  trials  wait  around  thee, 

And  its  chilling  billows  swell, 
Thou'lt  thank  Heaven  that  I'm  spared  them, 

Thou  wilt  feel  that  "all  is  well." 
Bring  our  boys  unto  my  bedside ; 

My  last  blessing  let  them  keej) — 
But  they're  sleejiing,  do  not  wake  them. 

They'll  learn  soon  enough  to  weep. 

Tell  them  often  of  their  mother, 

Kiss  them  for  me  when  they  wake; 
Lead  them  gently  in  life's  pathway, 

Love  them  doubly  for  my  sake. 
Clasp  my  hand  still  closer,  darling. 

This,  the  last  night  of  my  life, 
For  to-morrow  I  shall  never 

Answer  when  thou  call'st  me  "  wife." 

Fare  thee  well,  my  noble  husband ; 

Faint  not  'neath  the  chastening  rod ; 
Throw  your  strong  arms  round  our  cliildren. 

Keep  them  close  to  thee — and  God ! 


NUMBER  SIX.  25 


ANSWER  TO  "  I  AM  DYING."— Rev.  Wm.  Laurie. 

Dearest  wife,  I've  raised  thy  pillow, 

And  I  watch  thy  failing  breath ; 
O'er  my  heart  fall  deep,  dark  shadows 

As  I  gaze  on  thee,  and  death. 
At  thy  side  I'm  seated,  darling, 

And  I  feel  thy  feeble  grasp 
As,  in  anguish,  I  release  thee 

From  my  trembling,  loving  clasp. 

I,  too,  dream  of  that  bright  moment 

When  thou  stoodst  my  bride  and  wife; 
Then  thy  blessedness  I'd  purchase, 

Had  it  cost  me  e'en  my  life. 
From  that  dream  here's  a  rude  waking, 

Crushing  down  both  mind  and  heart; 
Must  I  learn  this  painful  lesson? 

Here  and  now,  oh,  must  we  part! 

Soon  my  sorrows  will  not  reach  thee; 

Thou'lt  be  far  beyond  their  power — 
With  the  God  in  whom  thou  trusteth, — 

Ere  time  marks  another  hour. 
That  thy  future's  bright  and  blessed 

Is  a  daily  joy  to  me; 
It  will  lighten  every  sorrow, 

To  know  it  is  not  shared  by  thee. 

Round  thy  bed  our  boys  are  gathered. 

And  with  me  they  stand  and  weep; 
A  last  blessing  give  unto  them. 

That  they  evermore  may  keep. 
In  our  hearts  thou'lt  live  forever, 

On  our  lips  thou'lt  daily  be, 
Till  we  too  shall  cross  tlie  river. 

And  with  thee  our  Savior  see. 

I  shall  gaze  upon  our  children, 

Night  by  night  when  tliou  art  gone; 
No  one  else  is  left  to  love  them, 

I  must  guide  them  all  alone. 
Night  and  day  from  harm  I'll  shield  them, 

And  lov(^'«  vigils  I  shall  keep; 
Gently  tlirmigh  life  will  J  lead  them 

Until  by  thy  side  I  sleep. 


26  ONE   UUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Close  the  hand  I'm  clasping,  darling, 

As  I  watch  thy  ebbing  life; 
Shall  I  no  more  hear  thee  answer, 

When  I  whisper,  dearest  wife? 
Life  is  dark,and  bleak  and  dreary, 

I  am  left  without  a  home — 
Broken-hearted,  weak,  and  weary; 

Oh,  that  he'd  to  me  say,  "  Come !" 

But  our  children  need  my  presence, 

And  for  tliem  I  fain  would  stay 
.  Till  my  work  in  time  is  finished, 

Till  I  close  life's  weary  day. 
When  'tis  done  and  Jesus  calls  me 

To  the  rest  prepared  above, 
Oh,  the  joy  that  there  awaits  me, 

Dwelling  with  thee  in  his  love ! 

Then  we'll  have  the  joy  of  loving 
"  As  we  never  loved  before ; 

Loving  on  unchilled,  unhindered, 
Loving  once  and  evermore." 


NOTHING  AT  ALL  IN  THE  PAPER  TO-DAY. 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day ! 

Only  a  murder  somewhere  or  other, — 
A  girl  who  has  put  her  child  away. 

Not  being  a  wife  as  well  as  a  mother. 
Or  a  drunken  husband  beating  a  wife, 

With  the  neighbors  lying  awake  to  listen ; 
Scarce  aware  he  lias  taken  a  life 

Till  in  at  the  window  the  dawn-rays  glisten. 
But  that  is  all  in  the  regular  way —  J 

There's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day.  ,| 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day ! 

To  be  sure  there's  a  woman  died  of  starvation,  \ 

Fell  down  in  the  street — as  so  many  may  }\ 

In  this  very  prosperous  Christian  nation.  J 

Or  two  young  girls,  with  some  inward  grief 

Maddened,  have  plunged  in  the  inky  waters, 
Or  a  father  has  learnt  that  his  son's  a  thief. 

Or  a  mother  been  robbed  of  one  of  her  daughters. 


I 


NUMBER  SIX.  27 

Things  that  occur  in  the  regular  way — 
There's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day. 

There's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day, 

Unless  you  cai'e  about  things  in  the  city — 
How  great  rich  rogues  for  th<;ir  crimes  must  pay 

(Though  all  gentility  cries  out  "  Pity !"), 
Like  the  meanest  shop-boy  tliat  robs  a  till. 

There's  a  case  to-day,  if  I'm  not  forgetting, 
The  lad  only  "borrowed"  as  such  lads  will — 

To  pay  some  money  he  lost  in  betting. 
But  there's  nothing  in  this  that's  out  of  the  way — 
There's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day. 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day 

But  the  births  and  bankruptcies,  deaths  and  marriages, 
But  life's  events  in  the  old  survey. 

With  Virtue  begging,  and  Vice  in  carriages; 
And  kindly  hearts  under  ermine  gowns. 

And  wicked  breasts  under  hodden  gray, — 
For  goodness  belongs  not  only  to  clowns. 

And  o'er  others  tlian  lords  does  sin  bear  sway. 
But  what  do  I  read? — "Drowned!  wrecked!"    L)id  I  say 
There  was  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day  ? 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  "  OLD  COACHING  DAYS." 

John  Poole. 

I  DO  not  call  him  an  early  riser  who,  once  in  his  life, 
may  have  been  forced  out  of  his  bed  at  eight  o'clock  on  a 
November  morning,  in  consequence  of  his  house  having 
been  on  fire  ever  since  seven  ;  nor  would  I  attach  such  a 
stigma  to  him  who,  in  the  sheerspiritof  foolhardinessaud 
bravado,  should  for  once  and  away  "awake,  arise,"  even 
three  or  four  hours  earlier,  in  the  same  inclement  season. 
I,  myself,  have  done  it !  But  the  fact  is,  that  the  thing, 
as  a  constant  practice,  is  impossible  to  one  who  is  not  "to 
the  manner  born."  He  must  be  taught,  as  a  fish  ie  taught 
to  swim,  from  his  earliest  infancy. 

I  know  it  may  be  objected  to  me  that  chimney-sweepers, 
dustmen,  etc.,  are  early  risers ;  but  this  I  would  rather 


28  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

take  to  be  a  vulgar  error  than  admit  it  as  a  fact;  what 
proof  can  you  adduce  that  they  have  yet  been  to  bed  ? 
For  iny  own  j^art,  I  am  unwilling  to  think  so  uncharita- 
bly of  human  nature  as  to  believe  that  any  created  being 
would  force  another  to  quit  his  bed  at  hve  o'clock  on  a 
frosty  morning. 

I  have  confessed  that  once,  in  the  sheer  spirit  of  bravado, 
I,  myself,  rose  (or  promised  to  rise)  at  that  ignominious 
period  of  the  night,  known,  or  rather  heard  of,  by  the 
term,  ''four  in  the  morning."  My  folly  deserved  a  severe 
punishment,  which,  indeed,  it  received  in  its  own  conse- 
quences; but  since  I  have  lately  been  informed  that  "a 
good-natured  friend"  is  of  opinion  that  it  merits  the  addi- 
tional chastisement  of  public  exposure,  I  will  (to  spare 
him  the  pain  of  bestowing  it  upon  me)  inflict  the  lash 
with  my  own  hand. 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  spending,  years  ago,  my  Christ- 
mas holidays  very  agreeably  with  a  family  at  Bristol. 

Having  an  aj)pointment  of  some  importance  for  the 
eighth  of  January,  in  London,  I  had  settled  that  my  visit 
should  terminate  on  Twelfth-night.  On  the  morning  of 
that  festive  occasion,  I  had  not  yet  resolved  on  any  par- 
ticular mode  of  conveyance  to  town ;  when,  walking  along 
Broad  street,  my  attention  was  brought  to  the  subject  by 
the  various  coach-advertisements  which  were  posted  on 
the  walls.  The  "Highflyer"  announced  its  departure  at 
three  in  the  afternoon, — a  rational  hour ;  the  "  Magnet "  at 
ten  in  the  morning, — somewhat  of  the  earliest;  whilst  the 
"  Wonder"  was  advertised  to  start  every  morning  at  five 
precisely  ! ! ! — a  glaring  impossibility. 

We  often  experience  an  irresistible  impulse  to  interfere 
in  some  matter,  simply  because  it  happens  to  be  no  busi- 
ness of  ours  ;  and  the  case  in  question  being  clearly  no 
affair  of  mine,  I  resolved  to  inquire  into  it.  I  went  into 
the  coach-office,  expecting  to  be  told,  in  answer  to  my  very 
first  question,  that  the  advertisement  was  altogether  a 
ruse  de  guerre. 


NUMBER  SIX.  29 

"  So,  sir,"  said  I,  to  the  book-keeper,  "you  start  a  coach 
to  London  at  five  in  the  morning  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  he,  \vith  the  most  perfect  nonchal- 
ance ! 

"  You  understand  me  ?  At  five — in  the  morning  ?" 
said  I,  with  an  emphasis  sufficiently  expressive  of  doubt. 

"  Yes,  sir,  five  to  a  minute — two  minutes  later  you'll  lose 
your  place." 

This  exceeded  all  my  notions  of  human  impudence. 
It  was  evident  I  had  here  an  extraordinary  mine  to  work, 
so  I  determined  upon  digging  into  it  a  few  fathoms 
deeper. 

"  And  would  you,  now,  venture  to  hook  a  place  for  me?" 

"Let  you  know  directly,  sir— (Hand  down  the  "  Won- 
der" Luunun-book  there.)     When  for,  sir?" 

I  stood  aghast  at  the  fellow's  coolness. 

After  a  momentary  pause,  "For  to-morrow,"  said  I. 

"Full  outside,  sir  ;  just  one  place  vacant  m." 

The  very  word  "outside,"  bringing  forcibly  to  my  mind 
the  idea  of  a  dozen  shivering  creatures  being  induced, 
by  any  possible  means,  to  perch  themselves  on  the  top  of 
a  coach,  on  a  dark,  dull,  dingy,  drizzlirig  morning  in  Jan- 
uary, confirmed  me  in  my  belief  that  the  whole  affair  was 
what  is  vulgarly  called  a  "  take-in." 

"So  you  will  venture  then,  to  book  a  place  for  me?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  And,  perhaps,  you  will  go  so  far  as  to  receive  half 
my  fore?" 

"If  you  please,  sir — one  pound  two." 

"Well,  you  are  an  extraordinary  person!  Perhaps, 
now, — pray  be  attentive, — perhaps,  now,  you  will  carry 
on  the  thing  so  far  as  to  receive  the  whole!" 

"If  you  plonse,  sir — two  pound  four." 

I  paid  him  the  money,  observing  at  the  same  time,  and 
in  a  tone  calculated  toimpresshisimaginarion  with  a  vivid 
picture  of  attorneys,  counsel,  judge,  and  jury — "  You  shall 
hear  from  me  again." 


30  ONE  nUNDEED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

"If  you  please, sir;  to-morrow  morumg.at  fi\e punctual 
—start  to  a  mmute,sir — thauk'ee,sir — good-nioruiug,sir." 

Aud  this  lie  uttered  without  a  blush  i 

"  To  what  expedients,"  thought  I,  as  I  left  the  office, 
"will  meu  resort,  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  their  neigh- 
bors! Here  is  one  who  exposes  himself  to  the  conse- 
quences of  an  action  at  law,  or,  at  least,  to  the  expense  of 
sending  me  to  town  in  a  chaise  and  four,  at  a  reasonable 
hour  of  the  day;  and  all  for  so  paltry  an  advantage  as 
that  of  preventing  my  paying  a  trifling  sum  to  a  rival 
proprietor — and  on  the  preposterous  pretence,  too,  of 
sending  me  off  at  five  in  the  mornino;!" 

The  first  person  I  met  was  my  friend,  Mark  Nort- 
ington,  and 

Even  now,  though  years  have  since  rolled  over  my 
head,  I  shudder  at  the  recollection  of  the  agonies  I  suf- 
fered, when  assured  by  him  of  the  frightful  fact  that  I 
had,  really  and  truly,  engaged  to  travel  in  a  c«ach  Avhicli, 
really  and  truly,  would  start  at  five  in  the  morning! 

It  may  be  asked  why  I  did  not  forfeit  my  forty-four 
shillings,  and  thus  escape  the  calamity.  No ;  the  laugh 
would  have  been  too  much  against  me ;  so,  resolving  to 

put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  I 1  will  not  say  I 

w  alked — I  positively  swaggered  about  the  streets  of  Bris- 
tol, for  an  hour  or  two,  with  all  the  self-importance  of  one 
who  has  already  performed  some  extraordinary  exploit, 
and  is  conscious  that  the  wondering  gaze  of  the  multitude 
is  directed  towards  him.  Being  condemned  to  the  miser- 
ies, it  was  but  fair  I  should  enjoy  the  honors  of  the  under- 
taking. To  every  person  I  met  with  whom  I  had  the 
slightest  acquaintance,  I  said  aloud,  "  I  start  at  five  to- 
morrow morning  !"  at  the  same  time  adjusting  my  cravat 
and  pulling  up  my  collar ;  and  went  into  three  or  four 
shops  and  purchased  trifles,  for  which  I  had  no  earthly 
occasion,  for  the  pure  gratification  of  my  vain-glory  in 
saying,  "  Be  sure  you  send  them  to-night,  for  I  start  at 
five  in  the  morning  1" 


NUMBER  SIX.  31 

But,  beneath  all  this  show  of  gallantry,  my  heart,  like 
that  of  many  another  hero  on  equally  desperate  occaaions 
— my  heart  was  ill  at  ease. 

I  returned  to  Eeeve's  Hotel,  College  Green,  where  I 
was  lodging. 

The  individual  who,  at  this  time,  so  ably  filled  the 
important  office  of"  Boots"  at  the  hotel  was  a  character. 
Be  it  remembered  that,  in  his  youth,  he  had  been  dis- 
charged from  his  place  for  omitting  to  call  a  gentleman, 
who  was  to  go  by  one  of  the  morning  coaches,  and  who, 
in  consequence  of  such  neglect,  missed  his  journey.  This 
misfortune  nuxde  a  lasting  impression  on  the  intelligent 
mind  of  Mr.  Boots. 

"  Boots,"  said  I,  in  a  mournful  tone,  "  you  must  call 
me  at  four  o'clock." 

"  Do  'ee  want  to  get  up,  zur  ?"  inquired  he,  with  a 
broad  Somersetshire  twang. 

"  Want  it,  indeed!  no;  but  I  must." 

"  Well,  zur,  I'll  carl'ee ;  if  you  be  as  sure  to  get  up  as 
I  be  to  carl'ee,  you'll  not  knoa  what  two  minutes  arter 
vore  means  in  your  bed.  Sure  as  ever  clock  strikes,  I'll 
hav'ee  out,  dunged  if  I  doan't !  Good  night,  zur ;" — and 
exit  Boots. 

"  And  now  I'll  pack  my  portmanteau." 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night,  and  my  bed-room  fire  had 
gone  out.  Except  the  rush-candle,  in  a  pierced  tin  box,  I 
had  notliing  to  cheer  the  gloom  of  a  very  large  apartment, 
the  walls  of  which  (now  dotted  over  by  the  melancholy 
rays  of  the  rushlight,  as  they  struggled  through  the  holes  of 
the  box)  were  of  dark-l)rown  wainscot — but  one  solitai'y 
wax  taper.  Th(;re  lay  coats,  trousers,  linen,  books,  papers, 
dressing  materials,  in  dire  confusion,  about  the  room.  In 
despair,  I  sat  me  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  con- 
templated the  chaos  around  me.  My  energies  were  para- 
lyzed by  tlie  scene.  Had  it  been  to  gain  a  kingdom,  I 
could  not  have  thrown  a  glove  into  the  portmanteau  ;  so, 
resolving  to  defer  packing  till  the  morrow,  I  got  into  bed. 


KK" 


32  ONE    HUNDRED   CnOICE   SELECTIONS 

My  slumbers  were  fitful — disturbed.  Horrible  dreams 
assailed  me.  Series  of  watches  each  pointing  to  the  hour 
of  FOUR  passed  slowly  before  me — then,  time-pieces,  dials 
of  larger  size,  and,  at  last,  enormous  steeple-clocks,  all 
pointing  to  four,  four,  four. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream," 

and  endless  processions  of  watchmen  moved  along,  each 
mournfully  dinning  in  my  ears,  "  Past  four  o'clock."  At 
length  I  was  attacked  by  nightmare.  Methought  I  was 
an  hour-glass — old  Father  Time  bestrode  me — he  pressed 
upon  me  with  unendurable  weight — fearfully  and  threat- 
eningly did  he  wave  his  scythe  above  my  head — he 
grinned  at  me,  struck  three  blows,  audible  blows,  with 
the  handle  of  his  scythe,  on  my  breast,  stooped  his  huge 
head,  and  shrieked  in  my  ear, 

"  Vore  o'clock,  zur ;  I  zay  it  be  vore  o'clock." 

It  was  the  awful  voice  of  Boots. 

"  Well,  I  hear  you,"  groaned  I. 

"  But  I  doan't  hear  you.     Vore  o'clock,  zur." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,  that'll  do." 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  but:  it  woan't  do,  zur.  'Ee  must 
get  up — past  vore,  zur." 

And  here  he  thundered  away  at  the  door ;  nor  did  he 
cease  knocking  till  I  was  fairly  up,  and  had  shown  my- 
self to  him  in  order  to  satisfy  him  of  the  fact. 

"  That'll  do,  zur ;  'ee  told  I  to  carl'ee,  and  I  hope  I  ha' 
carld'ee  property." 

I  lit  my  taper  at  the  rushlight.  On  opening  a  window- 
shutter,  I  was  regaled  with  the  sight  of  a  fog,  a  parallel 
to  which  London  itself,  on  one  of  its  most  perfect  Novem 
ber  days,  could  scarcely  have  produced.  A  dirty,  drizzling 
rain  was  falling.  My  heart  sank  within  me.  It  was  now 
twenty  minutes  past  four.  I  was  master  of  no  more  than 
forty  disposable  minutes,  and,  in  that  brief  space,  what 
had  I  not  to  do !  The  duties  of  the  toilet  were  indispen- 
sable— the  portmanteau  must  be  packed — and,  run  as  fast 
as  I  might,  I  could  not  get  to  the  coach-office  in  less  than  \  \\ 


NUMBEU  SIX.  33 

ten  minutes.  Hot  water  was  a.  luxury  not  to  he  procured ; 
at  that  villainous  hour  not  a  human  being  in  the  house 
(nor,  do  I  lirxuly  believe,  in  the  universe  entire,)  had 
risen — my  unfortunate  self,  and  my  companion  in  wretch- 
edness, poor  Boots,  excepted.  The  water  in  the  jug  was 
frozen ;  but,  by  dint  of  hammering  upon  it  with  the 
handle  of  the  poker,  I  succeed'ed  in  enticing  out  about 
as  much  as  would  have  filled  a  tea-cup.  Two  towels, 
which  had  been  left  wet  in  the  room,  were  standing  on  a 
chair,  bolt  upright,  as  stiff  as  the  poker  itself,  which  you 
might  almost  as  easily  have  bent.  The  tooth-brushes 
were  riveted  to  the  glass  in  which  I  had  left  them,  and  of 
which  (in  my  haste  to  disengage  them  from  their  strong- 
hold,) they  carried  away  a  fragment ;  the  soap  was 
cemented  to  the  dish;  my  shaving-brush  was  a  mass  of 
ice.  In  shape  more  appalling,  discomfort  had  never  ap- 
peared on  earth.  I  approached  the  looking-glass.  Even 
had  all  the  materials  for  the  operation  been  tolerably 
thawed,  it  was  impossible  to  use  a  razor  by  such  a  light. 

"AVho's  there?" 

"Now,  if 'ee  please,  zur;  no  time  to  lose;  only  twcnty- 
vive  minutes  to  vive." 

I  lost  my  self-possession — I  have  often  wondered  that 
that  morning  did  not  unsettle  my  mind. 

There  was  no  time  for  the  performance  of  anything  like 
a  comfortable  toilet.  I  resolved,  therefore,  to  defer  it 
altogether  till  the  coach  should  stop  to  breakfast.  "  I'll 
pack  my  portmanteau;  that  must  be  done."  In  went 
whatever  happened  to  come  first  to  hand.  In  my  haste, 
I  had  thrust  in,  amongst  my  own  things,  one  of  mine 
host's  frozen  towels.     Everything  must  come  out  again. 

"Who's  there!" 

"Now,  zur;  'ee'l  be  too  late,  zur." 

"Coming!" 

Everything  was  now  gathered  together — the  portman- 
teau would  not  lock.  No  matter,  it  must  be  content  to 
travel  to  town  in  a  denhabille  of  straps.     Where  were  my 

2* 


34  ONE  IIUNDEED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

boots?  Ill  my  hurry  I  had  packed  away  both  pair.  It 
was  impossible  to  travel  to  London  on  such  a  day  in  slip^ 
pers.     Again  was  everything  to  be  undone. 

"  Now,  zur,  coach  be  going." 

The  most  unpleasant  part  of  the  ceremony  of  hanging 
(scarcely  excepting  the  closing  act)  must  be  the  hourly 
notice  given  to  the  culprit  of  the  exact  length  of  time  he 
has  still  to  live.  Could  any  circumstance  have  added 
much  to  the  miseries  of  my  situation,  most  assuredly  it 
would  have  been  those  unfeeling  reminders. 

"  I'm  coming,"  again  replied  I,  with  a  groan.  "  1  havb 
only  to  pull  on  my  boots." 

They  were  both  left-footed!  Then  must  I  open  tne 
rascally  portmanteau  again. 

"Please,  zur " 

"  What  in  the  name  of  the do  you  want  now  T' 

"  Coach  be  gone,  please  zur." 

"Gone!     Is  there  a  chance  of  my  overtaking  it?" 

"Bless  'ee!  noa  zur;  not  as  Jem  Kobuins  do  droive. 
He  be  vive  mile  oft'  by  now." 

"You  are  certain  of  that?" 

"  I  warrant'ee,  zur." 

At  this  assurance  I  felt  a  thrdh  of  joy,  which  was 
almost  a  compensation  for  ali  my  sufferings  past. 

"Boots,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  kind-hearted  creature,  and 
I  will  give  you  an  additional  half-crown.  Let  the  house 
be  kept  perfectly  quiet,  and  desire  the  chamber-maid  to 
call  me " 

"At  what  o'clock,  zur?" 

"  This  day  three  months  at  the  earliest  I" 


HEAVIER  THE  CROSS.— Schmolke. 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  nearer  heaven ; 

No  cross  without,  no  God  within, — 
Deatli,  judffment,  from  the  heart  are  driven 

Amid  the  world's  false  glare  and  din. 


NUMBER  SIX.  ^  35 

Oh,  bappy  he  with  all  his  loss, 

AVhom  God  hath  set  beneath  the  cross! 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  better  Christian; 

This  is  the  touchstone  God  applies. 
How  many  a  garden  would  be  wasting, 

Unwet  by  showers  from  weeping  eyes! 
The  gold  by  tire  is  puritied; 
The  Christian  is  by  trouble  tried. 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  stronger  faith, 

The  loaded  palm  strikes  deeper  root, 
The  wine-juice  sweetly  issueth 

When  men  have  pressed  the  clustered  fruit ; 
And  courage  grows  where  dangers  come. 
Like  pearls  beneath  the  salt  sea  foam. 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  heartier  prayer; 

The  bruised  lierbs  most  fragrant  are. 
If  sky  and  wind  were  always  fair 

The  sailor  would  not  watch  the  star; 
And  David's  Psalms  had  ne'er  been  sung 
If  grief  his  heart  had  never  wrung. 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  more  asjoiring; 

From  vales  we  climb  to  mountain  crest; 
The  pilgrim,  of  the  desert,  tiring, 

Longs  for  the  Canaan  of  his  rest. 
The  dove  has  here  no  rest  in  sight, 
And  to  the  ark  she  wings  her  flight. 

Heavier  the  cross,  the  easier  dying. 

Death  is  a  friendlier  face  to  see; 
To  life's  decay  one  bids  defying. 

From  life's  distress  one  then  is  free. 
The  cross  sublimely  lifts  our  faith 
To  him  who  triumphed  over  death. 

Thou  Crucified !  the  cross  I  carry, — 

The  longer  may  it  dearer  be, — 
Anil  lest  I  faint  while  liero  I  tarry, 

Implant  thou  such  a  heart  in  me, 
Tliat  faith,  hope,  love,  may  flourish  there, 
Till  for  the  cross  my  crown  I  wear! 

Translation  from  tlie  German. 


S6  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


DEACON  MUNROE'S  STORY.— N.  S.  Emerson. 

Yes,  surely  the  bells  in  the  steeple 

Were  ringin'.     I  thought  you  knew  why. 
No?    Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you,  though  mostly 

It's  whispered  about  on  the  sly.    - 
Some  six  weeks  ago,  a  church  meetin' 

Was  held,  for — nobody  knew  what ; 
But  we  went,  and  the  parson  was  present, 

And  I  don't  know  who,  or  who  not. 

Some  twenty  odd  members,  I  calc'late, 

Which  mostly  was  wimmin,  of  course; 
But  I  don't  mean  to  say  aught  ag'in  'em ; 

I've  seen  many  gatherin's  look  worse. 
And,  in  the  front  row  sat  the  deacons, 

The  eldest  was  old  Deacon  Pryor, 
A  man  countin'  fourscore  and  seven. 

And  gin'rally  full  of  his  ire. 

Beside  him,  his  wife,  aged  fourscore, 

A  kind-hearted,  motherly  soul ; 
And  next  to  her,  young  Deacon  Hartley, 

A  good  Christian  man,  on  the  whole. 
Miss  Parsons,  a  spinster  of  fifty. 

And  long  ago  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Had  wedged  herself  next ;  and  beside  her 

Was  Deacon  Munroe — that's  myself. 

The  meetin'  was  soon  called  to  order,  i 

The  parson  looked  glum  as  a  text; 
We  silently  stared  at  each  other, 

And  every  one  wondered,  "  What  next!" 
When  straightway  ui^rose  Deacon  Hartley ;  i 

His  voice  seemed  to  tremble  with  fear  | 

As  he  said :  "  Boy  and  man,  you  have  known  me,  i 

My  friends,  for  this  nigh  forty  year.  1 

"And  you  scarce  may  expect  a  confession 

Of  error  from  me  ;  but — you  know 
My  dearly  loved  wife  died  last  Christmas, 

It's  noAV  over  ten  months  ago. 
The  winter  went  by  long  and  lonely,  ; 

But  the  springtime  crep'  forward  apace;  I 

The  farm-work  begun,  and  I  needed 

A  woman  about  the  old  place.  ' 


H 


NUMBER  SIX. 

"  My  children  were  wilder  than  rabbits, 

Anil  all  growing  worse  every  day ; 
I  conld  find  no  help  in  the  village, 

Although  1  was  willin'  to  pay. 
I  declare  I  was  near  'bout  discouraged, 

And  everything  looked  so  forlorn, 
When  good  little  Patience  McAlpine 

Skipped  into  our  kitchen,  one  morn. 

"  She  had  only  run  in  of  an  errand ; 

But  she  laughed  at  our  woe-begone  plight, 
And  set  to  work,  just  like  a  woman, 

A  putting  the  whole  place  to  right. 
And  though  her  own  folks  was  so  busy, 

And  illy  her  helpin'  could  spare, 
She'd  flit  in  and  out  like  a  sparrow, 

And  most  every  day  she  was  there. 

"So  the  summer  went  by  sorto'  cheerful. 

But  one  night  my  baby,  my  Joe, 
Was  restless  and  feverish,  and  woke  me 

As  babies  will  often,  you  know. 
I  was  tired  with  my  day's  work  and  sleepy, 

And  couldn't  no  way  keep  him  still ; 
So  at  last  I  grew  angry,  and  spanked  him. 

And  then  he  screamed  out  with  a  will. 

"  'Tvras  just  then  I  heard  a  soft  rapping. 

Away  at  the  half-open  door ; 
And  then  little  Patience  McAlpine 

Stepped  shyly  across  the  white  floor. 
Says  she,  'I  Ihought  Josey  was  crying; 

I  guess  I'd  best  take  him  away. 
I  knew  you'd  be  getting  up  early 

To  go  to  the  marshes  for  hay, 

"  'So  I  staid  hero  to-night,  to  get  breakfast; 

I  guess  he'll  be  quiet  with  me. 
Come,  baby,  kiss  })apa,  and  tell  him 

What  a  nice  littU;  man  he  will  be!' 
She  was  bending  low  over  the  l)aby, 

And  saw  the  big  tears  on  his  clicck  ; 
But  licr  face  was  so  closi!  to  my  whiskers, 

I  daresn't  move,  scarcely,  or  sjjcak  ; 


37 


38  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

"  Her  arms  were  both  holding  the  baby, 

Her  eyes  by  his  shoulder  was  hid ; 
But  her  mouth  was  so  near  and  so  rosy, 

That  I— kissed  her.    That's  just  what  I  did." 
Then  down  sat  the  tremblin'  sinner, 

The  sisters  they  murmured  "  For  shame." 
And  "  She  shouldn't  oughter  a  let  him. 

No  doubt  she  was  mostly  to  blame." 

When  slowly  uprose  Deacon  Pryor. 

"  Now,  brethren  and  sisters,"  he  said, 
(We  knowed  then  that  suthin'  was  comin', 

And  we  sot  as  still  as  the  dead.) 
"  We've  heard  brother  Hartley's  confession, 

And  I  speak  for  myself  when  I  say, 
That  if  my  wife  was  dead,  and  my  children 

Were  all  growin'  wuss  every  day ; 

"And  if  my  house  needed  attention, 

And  Patience  McAlpine  should  come 
And  tidy  the  cluttered-up  kitchen, 

And  make  the  place  seem  more  like  home ; 
And  if  I  was  tired  out  and  sleepy, 

And  my  baby  wouldn't  lie  still. 
But  cried  out  at  midnight  and  woke  me, 

As  babies,  we  know,  sometimes  will ; 

"And  if  Patience  came  in  to  hush  him. 

And  'twas  all  as  our  good  brother  says, 
I  think,  friends — I  think  I  should  kiss  her, 

And  'bide  by  the  consequences." 
Then  down  sat  the  elderly  deacon. 

The  younger  one  lifted  his  face. 
And  a  smile  rippled  over  the  meetin' 

Like  light  in  a  shadowy  place. 

Perhaps,  then,  the  matronly  sisters 

Remembered  their  far-away  youth, 
Or  the  daughters  at  home  by  their  firesides, 

Shrined  each  in  her  shy,  modest  truth  ; 
For  their  judgments  grew  gentle  and  kindly, 

And — well !  as  I  started  to  say, 
The  solemn  old  bells  in  the  steeple 

Were  ringing  a  bridal  to-day. 

— Appletoii's  Journal. 


NUMBER  SIJ.  39 

LITERARY  PURSUITS  AND  ACTIVE  BUSINESS. 

A.  H.  Everett. 

Heed  not  the  idle  assertion  tliat  literary  pursuits  will 

disqualify  you  for  the  active  business  of  life.     Reject  it 

as  a  mere  imagination,  inconsistent  with  principle,  unsuj)- 

ported  by  experience.     Point  out  to  those  who  make  it 

the  illustrious  characters  who  have  reaped  in  every  age 

the  highest  honors  of  sUidious  and  active  exertion.    Show 

them  Demosthenes  forging,  by  the  light  of  the  midnight 

lamp,  those  thunderbolts  of  eloquence,  which 

"  Shook  the  arsenal,  fulmined  over  Greece, 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne." 

Ask  them  if  Cicero  would  have  been  hailed  with  rap- 
ture as  the  father  of  his  country,  if  he  had  not  been  its 
pride  and  pattern  in  philosophy  and  lettprs.  Inquire 
whether  Ciiesar,  or  Frederick,  or  Bonaparte,  or  Welling- 
ton, or  Washington,  fought  the  worse  because  they  knew 
how  to  write  their  own  commentaries.  Remind  them  of 
Franklin,  tearing  at  the  same  time  the  lightning  from 
heaven  and  the  sceptre  from  the  hands  of  the  ojipressors. 
Do  they  say  to  you  that  Study  will  lead  you  to  skepticism? 
Recall  to  their  memory  the  venerable  names  of  Bacon, 
Milton,  Newton,  and  Locke.  Would  they  persuade  you 
that  devotion  to  learning  Avill  withdraw  your  steps  from 
the  paths  of  pleasure?  Tell  them  they  are  mistaken. 
Tell  them  that  the  only  true  pleasures  are  those  which 
result  from  the  diligent  exercise  of  all  the  faculties  of 
body,  and  mind,  and  heart,  in  pursuit  of  noble  ends  by 
noble  means.  Repeat  to  them  the  ancient  apologue  of 
the  youthful  Hercules,  in  the  pride  of  strength  and 
beauty,  giving  up  his  generous  soul  to  the  worship  of 
virtue.  Tell  them  your  choice  is  also  made.  Tell  them, 
with  the  illustrious  Roman  orator,  you  would  rather  be 
in  tlie  wrong  with  Plato,  than  in  the  right  with 
Epicurus.  Tell  them  tliat  a  mother  in  Sparta  would 
have  rather  seen  her  son  brought  home  from  battle  a 


40  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

corpse  upon  his  shield,  than  dishonored  by  its  loss. 
Tell  them  that  your  mother  is  America,  your  battle 
the  warfare  of  lips,  your  shield  the  breastplate  of 
Religion. 


ARTEMUS  WARD  ON   WOMAN'S  RIGHTS. 
C.  F.  Brown. 

I  pitcht  my  tent  in  a  small  town  in  Injianny  one  day 
last  seeson,  &  while  I  was  standiu  at  the  dore  takin  mon- 
ey, a  deppytashun  of  ladies  came  up  &  sed  they  wos 
members  of  the  Bunkumville  Female  Moral  Reformiu 
&  Wimin's  Rite's  Associashun,  and  thay  axed  me  if  thay 
cood  go  in  without  payin.  "  Not  exactly,"  sez  I,  "  but 
you  can  pay  without  goin  in."  "  Dew  you  know  who 
we  air?"  said  one  of  the  wimln — a  tall  and  feroshus  lookin 
critter,  with  a  blew  kotton  umbreller  under  her  arm — 
"do  you  know  who  we  air  Sir?" 

"  My  impreshun  is,"  sed  I,  "  from  a  keisery  view,  that 
you  air  females," 

"  We  air,  Sur,"  said  the  feroshus  woman — "  we  belong 
to  a  Society  Avhitch  beleeves  wimin  has  rites — which 
beleeves  in  razin  her  to  lier  proper  speer — whitch  beleeves 
she  is  indowed  with  as  much  intelleck  as  man  is — whitch 
beleeves  she  is  trampled  on  and  aboozed — &  who  will 
resist  hense4th  &  forever  the  incroachments  of  proud  & 
domineering  men." 

Durin  her  discourse,  the  exsentric  female  grabed  me 
by  the  coat-kollor  &  was  swinging  her  umbreller  wildly 
over  my  hed. 

"I  hope,  marm,  sez  I,  starting  back,  "that  your  inten- 
sions is  honorable?  I'm  a  lone  man  hear  in  a  strange 
place.     Besides,  I've  a  wife  to  hum." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  female,  "&  she's  a  slave!  Doth  she 
never  dream  of  freedom — doth  she  never  think  of  throw- 
in  oif  the  yoke  of  tyrrinny  &  thinkin  &  votin  for  herself? 
■ — Doth  she  never  think  of  these  here  things  ?" 


NUMBER    SIX.  41 

"Not  bein  a  natral  born  fool,"  sed  I,  by  this  time  a 
little  riled,  "  I  kin  safely  say  that  she  dothuut." 

"  O  whot — whot !  "  screamed  tlie  female,  swingin  her 
umbreller  iu  the  air.  "  O,  what  is  the  price  that  woman 
pays  for  her  expeeriunce !  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  sez  I ;  "  the  price  to  my  show  is  15 
cents  pur  individooal." 

"&  can't  our  Sosiety  go  in  free  ?  "  asked  the  female. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,"  sed  I. 

"  Crooil,  crooil  man  !  "  she  cried,  &  bust  into  teers. 

"  Won't  you  let  my  darter  in  ?  "  sed  anuther  of  the 
exsentric  wirain,  taken  me  afeckshunitely  by  the  hand. 
"  O,  please  let  my  darter  in, — shee's  a  sweet  gushin  child 
ofnatur." 

"  Let  her  gush !  "  roared  I,  as  mad  as  I  cood  stick  at 
their  tarnal  nonsense  ;  "  let  her  gush  !  "  Where  upon 
they  all  sprung  back  with  the  simultanious  observasiiun 
that  I  was  a  Beest. 

"  My  female  friends,"  sed  I,  "  be4  you  leeve,  I've  a  few 
remarks  to  remark  ;  wa  them  well.  The  female  woman 
is  one  of  the  greatest  institooshuns  of  which  this  land 
can  boste.  It's  onpossible  to  get  along  without  her. 
Had  there  bin  no  female  wimin  in  the  world,  I  should 
scarcely  be  here  with  my  unparaleld  show  on  this  very 
occashun.  She  is  good  in  sickness — good  in  wellness — 
good  all  the  time.  O,  woman,  woman ! "  I  cried,  my 
feelins  worked  up  to  a  hi  poetick  pitch,  "  you  air  a  angle 
when  you  behave  yourself;  but  when  you  take  off  your 
proper  appairel  &  (mettyforically  speaken) — get  into 
pantyloons — when  you  desert  your  firesides,  and  with 
your  hods  full  of  wimin's  rites  noshuns  go  round  like 
roarin  lyons,  seekin  whom  you  may  devour  someboddy 
— in  short,  when  you  undertake  to  play  the  man,  you 
play  the  miscliief  and  air  an  emfatic  noosanice.  My 
female  friends,"  I  continncred,  as  they  were  indig- 
nantly departin,  "  wa  well  what  A.  Ward  has  sed  I " 


42      .  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


MEMORY'S  WILD-WOOD. 

The  day,  with  its  sandals  dipped  in  dew, 

Has  passed  through  the  evening's  golden  gates, 

And  a  single  star  in  the  cloudless  blue 
For  the  rising  moon  in  silence  waits ; 

While  the  winds  that  sigh  I.0  the  languid  hours 

A  luhaby  breathe  o'er  the  folded  flowers. 

The  lilies  nod  to  the  sound  of  the  stream 

That  winds  along  with  lulling  flow. 
And  either  awake,  or  half  a-dreani, 

I  pass  through  the  realms  of  long  ago; 
While  faces  peer  with  many  a  smile 
From  the  bowers  of  Memory's  magical  isle. 

There  are  joys  and  sunshine,  sorrows  and  tears 
That  check  the  path  of  life's  April  hours, 

And  a  longing  wish  for  the  c  .ming  years, 
That  hope  ever  wreathes  with  the  £airest  flowers; 

There  are  friendships  guileless,  love  as  bright 

And  pure  as  the  stars  in  halls  of  night. 

There  are  ashen  memories,  bitter  pain. 
And  buried  hopes  and  a  broken  vow. 

And  an  aching  heart  by  the  reckless  main, 
And  the  sea-breeze  fanning  a  pallid  brow ; 

And  a  wanderer  on  the  shell-lined  shore 

Listening  for  voices  that  speak  no  more. 

There  are  passions  strong  and  ambitions  wild. 
And  the  flerce  desire  to  stand  in  the  van 

Of  the  battle  of  life— and  the  heart  of  the  child 
Is  crushed  in  the  breast  of  the  struggling  man; 

But  short  the  regrets  and  few  the  tears, 

That  fall  at  the  tomb  of  the  banished  years. 

There  is  quiet  and  peace  and  domestic  love, 
And  joys  arising  from  faith  and  truth, 

And  a  truth  unquestioning,  far  above 
The  passionate  dreamings  of  ardent  youth ; 

And  kisses  of  children  on  lips  and  cheek. 

And  the  parent's  bliss  which  no  tongue  can  speak. 

There  are  loved  ones  lost !     There  are  little  graves 
In  the  distant  dell,  'neath  protecting  trees, 


NUMBER    SIX.  43 

Where  the  streamlet  winds,  and  the  violet  waves, 

And  the  grasses  sway  to  the  sighing  breeze ; 
And  we  mourn  for  the  pressure  of  tender  lips ; 
And  the  light  of  eyes  darkened  in  death's  eclipse. 

And  thus,  as  the  glow  of  the  day-light  dies, 
And  the  night's  first  look  to  the  earth  is  cast, 

I  gaze,  'neath  those  beautiful  summer  skies, 
At  the  pictures  that  hang  in  the  hall  of  the  past. 

Oh,  Sorrow  and  Joy  chant  a  mingled  lay 

When  to  Memory's  wild-wood  we  wander  away! 


A  HOME  PICTURE.— Fkancis  Dana  Gagb. 

Ben  Fisher  had  finished  his  hard  day's  work, 

And  he  sat  at  his  cottage  door ; 
His  good  wife,  Kate,  sat  by  his  side. 

And  the  moonlight  danced  on  the  floor — 
The  moonlight  danced  on  the  cottage  floor, 

Her  beams  were  clear  and  bright 
As  when  he  and  Kate,  twelve  years  before. 

Talked  love  in  her  mellow  light. 

Ben  Fisher  had  never  a  pipe  of  clay, 

And  never  a  dram  drank  he ; 
So  he  loved  at  home  with  his  wife  to  stay, 

And  they  chatted  right  merrily ; 
Right  merrily  chatted  they  on,  the  while 

Her  babe  slept  on  her  breast. 
While  a  cliubljy  rogue,  with  rosy  smile. 

On  his  father's  knee  found  rest. 

Ben  told  her  how  fast  the  potatoes  grew, 

And  the  corn  in  the  lower  field ; 
And  the  wheat  on  the  hill  was  grown  to  seed. 

And  i)romised  a  gloi'ious  yield; — 
A  glorious  yield  in  the  harvest  time, 

And  his  orchard  was  doing  fair; 
His  slieep  and  his  stock  were  in  their  prime. 

His  larm  all  in  good  repair. 

Kate  said  that  her  garden  looked  beautiful, 

Tier  fowls  and  licr  calves  wi're  fat; 
Tliat  tlic  liutlcr  that  Tommy  that  morning  churned 

Would  buy  him  a  Sunday  hat; 


44  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

That  Jenny,  for  Pa,  a  new  shirt  had  made, 

And  'twas  done  too  by  the  rule ; 
That  Neddy  the  garden  could  nicely  spade; 

And  Ann  was  ahead  at  school, 

Ben  slowly  raised  his  toil-worn  hand 
Through  his  locks  of  grayish  brown : 

"I  tell  you,  Kate,  what  I  think,"  said  he, 
"  We're  the  happiest  folks  in  town." 

"I  know,"  said  Kate,  "that  we  all  work  hard- 
Work  and  health  go  together,  I've  found ; 

For  there's  Mrs.  Bell  does  not  work  at  all, 
And  she's  sick  the  whole  year  round. 

"They're  worth  their  thousands,  so  people  say, 

But  I  ne'er  saw  them  hapi)y  yet ; 
'Twould  not  be  me  that  would  take  their  gold, 

And  live  in  a  constant  fret ; 
My  humble  home  has  a  light  within, 

Mrs.  Bell's- gold  could  not  buy, — 
Six  healthy  children,  a  merry  heart. 

And  a  husband's  love-lit  eye." 

I  fancied  a  tear  was  in  Ben's  eye — 

The  moon  shone  brighter  and  clearer, 
I  could  not  tell  why  the  man  should  cry, 

But  he  hitched  up  to  Kate  still  nearer; 
He  leaned  his  head  on  her  shoulder  there, 

And  he  took  her  hand  in  his — 
I  guess — (though  I  looked  at  the  moon  just  then,) 

That  he  left  on  her  lips  a  kiss. 


THE  OLD  MAN  IN  THE  STYLISH  CHURCH. 

John  II.  Yates. 

Well,  wife,  I've  been  to  church  to-day — ^been  to  a  stylish  one  — 
And,  seein'  you  can't  go  from  home,  I'll  tell  you  what  was 

done: 
You  would  have  been-  surprised  to  see  what  I  saw  there 

to-day ; 
The  sisters  were  fixed  up  so  fine  they  hardly  bowed  to  pray, 

I  had  on  these  coarse  clothes  of  mine,  not  much  the  worse 

for  wear, 
But  then  they  knew  I  wasn't  one  they  call  a  millionaire; 


NUMBER    SIX.  45 

So  they  led  the  old  man  to  a  seat  away  back  by  the  door — 
'Twas  bookless  and  uncush^ioned,  a  reserved  seat  for  the  poor. 

Pretty  soon  in  came  a  stranger  with  gold  ring  and  clothing 

fine. 
They  led  him  to  a  cushioned  seat  far  in  advance  of  mine. 
I  thought  that  wasn't  exactly  right  to  seat  him  up  so  near 
AVheu  he  was  young,  and  1  was  old  and  very  hard  to  hear, 

But  then  there's  no  accountin'  for  what  some  people  do; 
The  finest  dothing  now-a-days  oft  gets  the  finest  pew, 
But  when  we  reach  the  blessed  home,  all  undefiled  by  sin, 
AVe'U  see  wealth  beggin'  at  the  gate,  while  poverty  goes  in. 

I  couldn't  hear  tlie  sermon,  I  sat  so  far  away, 

8o,througli  the  hour  of  service,  I  could  only  "watch  and  pray;" 

Watch  the  doin's  of  the  Christians  sitting  near  me,  round 

about ; 
Pray  God  to  make  them  pure  within,  as  they  were  pure 

without. 

"WHiile  I  sat  there,  lookin'  round  upon  the  rich  and  great, 
I  kept  thinkin'  of  the  rich  man  and  the  beggar  at  his  gate; 
How,  by  all  but  dogs  forsaken,  the  poor  beggar's  form  grew 

cold, 
And  the  angels  bore  his  spirit  to  the  mansions  built  of  gold. 

How,  at  last,  tlie  rich  man  perished,  and  his  spirit  took  its 

tlight 
From  the  purple  and  fine  linen  to  the  home  of  endless 

niglit ; 
There  he  learned,  as  he  stood  gazin'  at  the  beggar  in  the  sky, 
"It  isn't  all  of  life  to  live,  nor  all  of  death  to  die." 

I  doubt  not  tliere  were  wealth}'  sires  in  that  religious  fold 
"Who  went  uj)  fi'om  their  dwellings  like  the  riiarisee  of  old; 
Then  returned  home  from  their  worshi]),  with  a  head  up- 
lifted high, 
To  spurn  the  hungry  from  their  door,  with  naught  to  satisfy. 

Out,  out  with  such  professions!   they  are  doin'  more  to-day 
Til  stop  the  weary  sinner  from  the  Gospel's  shinin'  way 
Than  all  tlu;  ))ooks  of  infidels;  than  all  that  has  been  tried 
Since  Christ  was  born  at  Bethlehem  —  since   Christ  was 
crucified. 

How  simple  are  the  works  of  God.  and  yet  how  very  grand; 
The  shells  in  ocean  caverns,  th<j  llowers  on  the  land; 


46  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

He  gilds  the  clouds  of  eveuiu'  with  the  gold  righf  from  His 

throne, 
Not  for  the  rich  man  only ;— not  for  the  poor  alone. 

Then  why  should  Jiian  look  down  on  man  because  of  lack 

of  gold  ? 
Why  seat  him  in  the  poorest  pew  because  his  clothes  are  old? 
A  heart  with  noble  motives — a  heart  that  God  has  blest — 
May  be  beatiii'  heaven's  music  'neath  that  faded  coat  and  vest. 

I'm  old— I  may  be  childish  — but  I  love  simplicity; 
I  love  to  see  it  shinin'  in  a  Christian's  piety. 
Jesus  told  us  in  His  sermons  in  Judea's  mountains  wild, 
He  that  wants  to  go  to  heaven  must  be  like  a  little  child. 

Our  heads  are  growin'  gray,  dear  wife ;  our  hearts  are  beatin' 

slow ; 
In  a  little  while  the  ^Master  will  call  for  us  to  go. 
When  we  reach  the  ])carly  gateways,  and  look  in  with  J03-fuI 

eyes, 
We'll  see  no  stylish  worship  in  the  tenijile  of  the  skies. 


JENKINS  GOES  TO  A  PIC-NIC. 

Maria  Ann  recently  determined  to  go  to  a  pic-nic. 

Maria  Ann  is  my  wife ; — unfortunately  she  had  planned 
it  to  go  alone,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  on  that  pic-nic  ex- 
cursion ;  but  when  I  heard  about  it,  I  determined  to  assist. 
She  pretended  she  was  very  glad,  I  don't  believe  she  was. 

"It  wilj  do  you  good  to  get  away  from  your  work'a 
day,  poor  fellow,"  she  said ;  "  and  we  shall  so  much  enjoy  a 
cool  morning  ride  on  the  cars,  and  a  dinner  in  the  woods." 

On  the  morning  of  that  day,  Maria  Ann  got  up  at  live 
o'clock.  About  three  minutes  later  she  disturbed  my 
slumbers,  and  told  me  to  come  to  breakfast.  I  told  her  I 
wasn't  hungry,  but  it  didn't  make  a  bit  of  difference,  I  had 
to  get  up.  The  sun  was  up  ;  I  had  no  idea  that  the  sun 
began  business  so  early  in  the  morning,  but  there  he  was. 

"Now,"  said  Maria  Ann,  "we  must  fly  around,  for 
the  cars  start  at  half-past  six.  Eat  all  the  breakfast  you 
can  for  you  Avon't  get  anything  more  before  noon." 


NUMBER    SIX.  47 

I  could  not  eat  anything  so  early  in  the  morning. 
There  wiis  ice  to  be  pounded  to  go  around  the  pail  of  ice 
cream,  and  the  sandwiches  to  be  cut,  and  I  thought  I 
would  never  get  the  legs  of  the  chicken  fixed  so  that  I 
could  get  the  cover  on  the  big  basket.  Maria  Ann  Hew 
around  and  piled  up  groceries  for  me  to  pack,  giving  di- 
rections to  the  girl  about  taking  care  of  the  house,  and 
putting  on  her  dress,  all  at  once.  There  is  a  deal  of  en- 
ergy in  that  woman,  perhaps  a  trifle  too  much. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  six  I  stood  on  the  front  steps 
with  a  basket  on  one  arm  and  Maria  Ann's  waterproof 
on  the  other,  and  a  pail  in  each  hand  and  a  bottle  of 
vinegar  in  my  coat-skirt  pocket.  There  was  a  camp-chair 
hung  on  me  somewhere,  too,  but  I  forget  just  where. 

"Now," said  Maria  Ann,  "we  must  run  or  we  shall 
not  catch  the  train." 

"  Maria  Ann,"  said  I,  "that  is  a  reasonable  idea.  How 
do  you  suppose  that  I  can  run  with  all  this  freight?" 

"  You  must,  you  brute.  You  always  try  to  tease  me.  If 
you  do  not  w'ant  a  scene  on  the  street,  you  will  start,  too." 

tSo  I  ran. 

I  had  one  comfort,  at  least.  Maria  Ann  fell  down 
and  l)rokc  her  parasol.  She  called  me  a  brute  again 
because  I  laughed.  She  drove  me  all  the  way  to  the 
depot  in  a  brisk  trot,  and  we  got  on  the  cars  ;  but  neither 
of  us  could  get  a  seat,  and  I  could  not  find  a  place  where  I 
could  set  the  things  down,  so  I  stood  there  and  held  them. 

"Maria,"  said  I  in  winning  accents,  "how  is  this  for 
a  cool  morning  ride  V" 

She  replied,  "You  are  a  ])rute,  Jenkins." 

"You  have  made  that  observation  before,  my  love," 
said  I. 

I  kept  my  courage  up,  yet  I  knew  th(>re  would  be  an 
hour  of  wrath  when  we  got  home.  While  we  were  get- 
ting out  of  the  cars,  the  bottle  in  my  coat-pocket  broke, 
and  consc<iucntly  I  had  one  boot  halt' full  of  vim^gar  all 
day.     That  ke})t  me  pretty  quiet,  and  Maria  Ann  ran  off 

LL, 


48  OKE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"with  a  big-whiskered  music  teacher,  and  lost  her  fan,  and 
got  her  feet  wet,  and  tore  her  dress,  and  enjoyed  herself 
so  much,  after  the  fashion  of  pic-nic  goers. 

I  thought  it  would  never  come  dinner  time,  and  Maria 
Ann  called  me  a  pig  because  I  wanted  to  open  our  basket 
before  the  rest  of  the  baskets  were  opened. 

At  last  dinner  came, — the  "nice  dinner  in  the  woods," 
you  know.  Over  three  thousand  little  red  ants  had 
got  into  our  dinner,  and  they  were  worse  to  pick  out  than 
fish  bones.  The  ice  cream  had  melted,  and  there  was 
no  vinegar  for  the  cold  meat,  except  what  was  in  my 
boot,  and  of  course  that  was  of  no  immediate  use.  The 
music  teacher  spilled  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  on  Maria  Ann's 
head,  and  pulled  all  the  frizzes  out  trying  to  wipe  off  the 
coffee  with  his  handkerchief.  Then  I  sat  on  a  piece  of 
raspberry  pie,  and  spoiled  my  white  pants,  and  conclu- 
ded I  didn't  want  anything  more.  I  had  to  stand  up 
against  a  tree  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  The  day  offered 
considerable  variety,  compared  to  every-day  life,  but 
there  were  so  many  drawbacks  that  I  did  not  enjoy  it  so 
much  as  I  might  have  done. 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  MONK  GABRIEL. 

Eleanor  C.  Donnelly. 

'Tis  the  soft  twilight.     Round  the  shining  fender, 

Two  at  my  feet  and  one  upon  tny  knee, — 
Dreamy-eyed  Elsie,  bright-lipped  Isabel, 
And  thou,  my  golden-beaded  Raphael, 
My  fairy,  small  and  slender : 
Listen  to  what  befell 
Monk  Gabriel, 
In  the  old  ages  ripe  with  mystery — 
Listen,  my  darlings,  to  the  legend  tender. 

A  bearded  man  with  grave,  but  gentle  look — 
His  silence  sweet  with  sounds 
With  whirh  the  simple-hearted  sprinjr  alwunds; 
Lowing  of  cattle  from  the  abbey  grounds, 


NUMBER    SIX.  49 

Chirping  of  insect,  and  the  building  rook, 
Mingled  like  murmurs  of  a  dreaming  shell ; 
Quaint  iracery  of  bird,  and  branch,  and  brook, 
Flitting  across  the  pages  of  his  book. 
Until  the  very  words  a  freshness  took — 
Deep  in  his  cell 
Sat  the  monk  Gabriel. 

In  his  book  he  read 
The  words  the  Master  to  his  dear  ones  said : 

"A  little  while  and  ye 
Shall  see, 

Shall  gaze  on  me ; 

A  little  while  again, 

Ye  shall  not  see  me  then." 
A  little  while ! 
The  monk  looked  up, — a  smile 
jNLaking  his  visage  brilliant,  lii^iuid-eyed : 
"  O  thou  who  gracious  art 
Unto  the  poor  of  heart, 
O  blessed  Christ !"  he  cried, 
"  Great  is  the  misery 

Of  mine  iniquity ; 
But  would  /  now  might  see, 
I\Iight  feast  on  Thee  !"~ 
The  blood  with  sudden  start, 
Nigh  rent  his  veins  apart — 
(Oh,  condescension  of  the  Crucified ! ) 

In  all  the  brilliancy 

Of  his  hvimanitj' — 
The  Christ  stood  by  his  side ! 

Pure  as  the  early  lily  was  his  skin. 
His  cheek  out-blushed  the  rose. 

His  lii3S,  the  glows 
Of  autumn  sunsets  on  eternal  snows ; 

And  liis  deep  eyes  within. 
Such  nameless  beauties,  wondrous  glories  dwelt, 
The  monk  in  si^eechless  adoration  knelt. 
In  each  fair  hand,  in  each  fair  foot  there  shone 
The  peerless  stars  he  took  from  Calvary ; 
Around  his  brows  in  tenderest  lucency 
The  thorn-marks  lingcnMl,  like  the  flush  of  dawn; 
An<l  from  the  ojicning  in  his  side  there  rilled 
A  light,  BO  dazzling,  that  the  room  was  tilled 

3 


60  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

With  heaven ;  and  transfigured  in  his  place, 

His  very  breathing  stilled, 
The  friar  held  his  robe  before  his  face, 
And  heard  the  angels  singing! 

'Twas  but  a  moment — then,  upon  the  spell 
Of  this  sweet  presence,  lo !  a  something  broke : 
A  something  trembling,  in  the  belfry  woke, 

A  shower  of  metal  music  flinging 
O'er  wold  and  moat,  o'er  park  and  lake  and  fell, 
And  through  the  open  windows  of  the  cell 

In  silver  chimes  came  ringing. 

It  was  the  bell 

Calling  monk  Gabriel, 

Unto  his  daily  task. 
To  feed  the  paupers  at  the  abbey  gate  ; 

No  respite  did  he  ask. 
Nor  for  a  second  summons  idly  wait ; 
But  rose  up,  saying  in  his  humble  way ; 
"  Fain  would  I  stay, 

O  Lord  !  and  feast  alway 
Upon  the  honeyed  sweetness  of  thy  beauty ; 
But  'tis  thy  will,  not  mine — I  must  obey. 

Help  me  to  do  my  duty !" 

The  while  the  Vision  smiled, 
The  monk  went  forth,  light-hearted  as  a  child. 
An  hour  hence,  his  duty  nobly  done, 

Back  to  his  cell  he  came ; 
Unasked,  unsought,  lo !  his  reward  was  won ! 
Rafters  and  walls  and  floor  wei  e  yet  aflame 
With  all  the  matchless  glory  of  that  Sun, 
And  in  the  centre  stood  the  Blessed  One 

(Praised  be  his  Holy  Name!) 
Who  for  our  sakes  our  crosses  made  his  own, 

And  bore  our  weight  of  shame. 

Down  on  the  threshold  fell 
Monk  Gabriel, 
His  forehead  pressed  upon  the  floor  of  clay. 
And  while  in  deep  humility  he  lay 
(Tears  raining  from  his  happy  eyes  away), 
"Whence  is  this  favor,  Lord  ?"  he  strove  to  say. 
The  Vision  only  said. 
Lifting  its  shining  head ; 
"If  thou  hadst  staid,  O  son,  /must  have  fled." 

From  "Out  of  Sweet  Solitude." 


NUMBER    SIX.  51 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

I  often  think  each  tottering  form 

That  Hmps  along  in  life's  decline, 
Once  bore  a  heart  as  young,  as  warm, — 

As  full  of  idle  thoughts  as  mine ! 
And  each  has  had  its  dream  of  joy. 

Its  own  unequalled  pure  romance ; 
Commencing  when  the  blushing  boy 

First  thrills  at  lovely  woman's  glance. 

And  each  could  tell  his  tale  of  youth, — 

Would  think  its  scenes  of  love  evince 
More  passion,  more  unearthy  truth 

Than  any  tale  before  or  since. 
Yes !  they  could  tell  of  tender  lay 

At  midnight  penned  in  classic  shades ; 
Of  days  more  bright  than  modern  days. 

And  maids  more  fair  than  modern  maids ; 

Of  whispers  in  a  willing  ear ; 

Of  kisses  on  a  blushing  cheek ; 
Each  kiss,  each  whisjier  far  more  dear 

Than  modern  lips  can  give  or  sj^eak ; 
Of  })assions  too  untimely  crossed ; 

Of  passions  slighted  or  betrayed ; 
Of  kindred  spirits  early  lost. 

And  buds  that  blossom  but  to  fade ; 

Of  beaming  eyes  and  tresses  gay, 

Elastic  form  and  noble  brow ; 
Of  forms  that  have  all  passed  away. 

And  left  them  what  we  see  them  now. 
And  is  it  thus, — is  human  love 

So  very  light  and  frail  a  thing? 
And  must  youth's  brightest  visions  move 

Forever  on  Time's  restless  wing  ? 

Must  all  the  eyes  that  still  are  bright, 

And  all  the  lips  that  talk  of  bliss, 
And  all  the  forms  so  fair  to  sight, 

Hereafter  only  come  to  this? 
Then  what  are  earth's  best  visions  worth 

If  we  at  length  must  lose  them  thus; 
If  all  we  value  most  on  earth 

Ere  long  must  fade  away  from  us? 


52  ONE    HUNDEED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


ROME  AND  CARTHAGE.— Victor  Hugo. 

Rome  and  Carthage ! — behold  them  drawing  near  for 
the  struggle  that  is  to  shake  the  world  !  Carthage,  the 
metropolis  of  Africa,  is  the  mistress  of  oceans,  of  king- 
doms, and  of  nations  ;  a  magnificent  city,  burthened  with 
opulence,  radiant  with  the  strange  arts  and  trophies  of 
the  East.  She  is  at  the  acme  of  her  civilization.  She 
can  mount  no  higher.  Any  change  now  must  be  a  de- 
cline. Rome  is  comparatively  poor.  She  has  seized  all 
Avithin  her  grasp,  but  rather  from  the  lust  of  conquest 
than  to  fill  her  own  coffers.  She  is  demi-barbarous,  and 
has  her  education  and  her  fortune  both  to  make.  All  is 
before  her,-nothing  behind.  For  a  time  these  two  nations 
exist  in  view  of  each  other.  The  one  reposes  in  the  noon- 
tide of  her  splendor ;  the  other  waxes  strong  in  the  shade. 
But,  little  by  little,  air  and  space  are  wanting  to  each, 
for  her  development.  Rome  begins  to  perplex  Carthage, 
and  Carthage  is  an  eyesore  to  Rome.  Seated  on  opposite 
banks  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  two  cities  look  each  other 
in  the  face.  The  sea  no  longer  keeps  them  apart.  Eu- 
rope and  Africa  weigh  upon  each  other.  Like  two  clouds 
surcharged  with  electricity,  they  impend.  With  their 
contact  must  come  the  thunder-shock. 

The  catastrophe  of  this  stupendous  drama  is  at  hand. 
What  actors  are  met !  Two  races, — that  of  merchants 
and  mariners,  that  of  laborers  and  soldiers  ;  two  nations, 
— the  one  dominant  by  gold,  the  other  by  steel ;  two  re- 
publics,— the  one  theocratic,  the  other  aristocratic. 
Rome  and  Carthage !  Rome  with  her  army,  Carthage 
with  her  fleet ;  Carthage,  old,  rich,  and  crafty, — Rome, 
young,  poor,  and  robust ;  the  past,  and  the  future ;  the 
spirit  of  discovery,  and  the  spirit  of  conquest ;  the  genius 
of  commerce,  the  demon  of  war ;  the  East  and  the  South 
on  one  side,  the  West  and  the  North  on  the  other ;  in 
short,  two  worlds, — the  civilization  of  Africa,  and  the 
civilization  of  Europe.     They  measure  each  other  from 


nuArersix.  53 

head  to  foot.  They  gather  all  their  forces.  Gradually 
the  war  kindles.  The  world  takes  fire.  These  colossal 
powers  are  locked  in  deadly  strife.  Carthage  has  crossed 
the  Alps ;  Rome,  the  seas.  The  two  nations,  personi- 
fied in  two  men,  Hannibal  and  Scipio,  close  with  each 
other,  wrestle,  and  grow  infuriate.  The  duel  is  desper- 
ate,— it  is  a  struggle  for  life.  Rome  wavers.  She  utters 
that  cry  of  anguish — Hannibal  at  the  gates!  But  she 
rallies — collects  all  her  strength  for  one  last,  appalling 
effort — throws  herself  upon  Carthage,  and  sweeps  hei 
from  the  lace  of  the  earth ! 


THE  QUILTING.— Anna  Bache. 

The  day  is  set,  the  ladies  met, 

And  at  the  frame  are  seated, 
In  order  placed,  they  work  in  haste, 

To  get  the  quilt  completed  ; 
While  fingers  fiy,  their  tongues  they  ply 

And  animate  their  labors 
By  counting  beaux,  discussing  clothes, 

Or  talking  of  their  neighbors. 

"Dear!  what  a  pretty  frock  you've  on." 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  like  it." 
"I'm  told  that  i\Iiss  Micomicon 

Don't  speak  to  Mr.  Micate." 
"I  saw  Miss  Belle,  the  other  day, 

Young  Green's  new  gig  adorning." 
"What  keeps  your  sister  Ann  away?" 

"  She  went  to  town  this  morning." 

"  It's  time  to  roll."    "  My  needle's  broke." 

"  So  Martin's  stock  is  selling." 
"  Louisa's  wedding  gown's  besj)okc." 

"Lend  me  your  scissors,  KUen." 
"That  match  will  never  come  about." 

"Now  don't  fly  in  a  passion." 
"Hair  pufls  tliey  say  are  going  out." 

"  Yes,  curls  are  all  the  fashion." 

The  quilt  is  done,  the  tea  begun. 
The  beaux  are  all  collecting ; 


54  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  table's  cleared,  the  music's  heard; 

His  partner  each  selecting, 
The  merry  band  in  order  stand, 

The  dance  begins  with  vigor, 
And  rapid  feet  the  measure  beat, 

And  trip  the  mazy  figure. 

Unheeded  fly  the  minutes  by, 

"  Old  Time"  himself  is  dancing, 
Till  night's  dull  eye  is  op'ed  to  spy 

The  light  of  morn  advancing. 
All  closely  stowed,  to  each  abode 

The  carriages  go  tilting ; 
And  many  a  dream  has  for  its  theme 

The  pleasures  of  the  quilting. 


GILES  AND  ABRAHAM.— Elmer  Ruan  Ccates. 

* 

Old  Giles,  the  undertaker,  sat 

In  his  cosy,  village  home ; 
He  struck  a  light  and  lit  his  pipe 
And  pufled  and  puffed,  alone. 
He  thought  of  those  who'd  gone  to  God, — 
Thase  he  had  laid  beneath  the  sod, 
.  And  he  quoth :  "  In  the  grave  we  will  all  be  laid, 
And  there'll  ever  be  some  in  the  coffin  trade." 

The  old  grave-digger  tapped  at  the  door, 

One  Abraham  by  name ; 
Giles  gave  to  him  the  great  arm-chair 
And  asked  him  of  his  dame. 
Said  he :  "  Well,  Giles,  has  old  King  Death 
Been  robbing  any  one  of  breath  ? 
At  the  store,  I  have  purchased  a  beautiful  spade. 
And  have  come  in  to  talk  of  the  coffin  trade. 

"Ah,  Abraham!"  said  good  old  Giles, 

"Just  come  to  the  window  side; 
A  wedding  night  across  the  way — 
Behold  the  lovely  bride ; 
She's  danced  herself  to  a  fever  heat, 
With  paper  soles  on  her  little  feet; 
With  her  arms  and  neck  and  bosom  bare, 
She  stands  at  the  door  for  the  cool  night  air. 


NUMBERSIX.  .55 

There'll  some  day  be  use  for  that  beautiful  spade, 
And  I'll  keep  up  my  stock  for  the  cotfin  trade." 

Said  Abraham ;  "  Our  neighbor  Brown 

Drinks  harder  every  day." 
Giles  said:  "  I  fear  for  neighbor  Brown, 
Eum  seems  to  have  its  way. 
And  thus  it  is  with  alcohol, 
It  rules,  and  men  will  surely  fall ; 
Maybe  they'll  stop  a  week  or  so, 
But  again  they  drink  and  down  they  go  ;— 
And  so  there  is  use  for  that  beautiful  spade. 
And  I  buy  me  new  boards  for  the  coffin  trade. 

"  Our  merchant  wears  away  his  flesh 

And  frets  himself  for  gain ; 
Our  lawyer  is  but  skin  and  bone. 
And  this  for  early  fame  ; 
Our  editor  will  burn  his  light, 
And  tax  his  power  half  the  night ; 
Our  doctor  in  his  drive  for  wealth 
Becomes  unmindful  of  his  health  ; 
Our  politician  never  sees 
A  quiet  home  or  day  of  ease ; 
And  others,  in  a  hundred  ways, 
Are  madly  shortening  their  days." 
Said  Abraham :  "All  this  is  so, 
And,  one  by  one,  they're  sure  to  go  ; 
So  I  will  have  use  for  my  beautiful  spade. 
And  yoa  will  continue  the  collin  trade. 

"Good  night  to  you,  my  old  friend  Giles." 

"  Good  night  to  you,  friend  Lane." 
The  former  dropi)e<l  a  fervent  tei3,r, 
The  latter  did  the  same. 
Said  Giles,  who  looked  him  in  the  eye, 
"Friend  Abraham,— 7/r,  tno,  must  die!" 
And,  here,  he  firmly  held  his  hand, 
And  both  were  lost  to  self-command. 
"Yes,  Abraham,  we,  too,  must  go 
From  all  wo  love  and  j)rize  below. 
They'll  say,  'Old  Lane  and  Giles  are  dead;' 
Some  tears  will  flow,  some  words  be  said  ; 
In  our  village  ground  we'll  both  be  laid  ; 
Till-  dirt  may  be  thrown  by  that  beautiful  spade, 
A.nd  we,  in  our  turn,  helj)  the  coffin  trade." 

LL* 


56  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


PRAYERS   OF   CHILDREN. 

In  the  quiet  nursery  chambers, 

Snowy  pillows  yet  unpressed, 
See  the  forms  of  little  children 

Kneeling,  white-robed,  for  their  rest. 
All  in  quiet  nursery  chambers, 

While  the  dusky  shadows  creep, 
Hear  the  voices  of  the  children : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

On  the  meadow  and  the  mountain 

Calmly  shine  the  winter  stars, 
But  across  the  glistening  lowlands 

Stand  the  moonlight's  silver  bars. 
In  the  silence  and  the  darkness, — 

Darkness  growing  still  more  deep, 
Listen  to  the  little  children 

Praying  God  their  souls  to  keep. 

"  If  we  die  " — so  pray  the  children. 

And  the  mother's  head  droops  low, 
One  from  out  her  fold  is  sleeping 

Deep  beneath  the  winter's  snow — 
"  Take  our  souls ;"  and  past  the  casement 

Flits  a  gleam  of  crystal  light. 
Like  the  trailing  of  his  garments, 

Walking  evermore  in  white. 

Little  souls  that  stand  expectant, 

Listening  at  the  gates  of  life. 
Hearing,  far  awav,  the  murmur 

Of  the  tumult  and  the  strife, 
We  who  fight  beneath  those  banners. 

Meeting  ranks  of  foemen  there. 
Find  a  deeper,  broader  meaning 

In  your  simple  vesper  prayer. 

When  your  hand  shall  grasp  this  standard 

AVhich  to-day  you  watch  from  far. 
When  your  deeds  shall  shape  the  conflict 

In  this  universal  war, 
Prav  to  him,  the  God  of  battles, 

Whose  strong  eyes  can  never  sleep. 
In  the  warring  of  temptation. 

Firm  and  true  your  souls  to  keep. 


NUMBER    SIX.  57 

When  the  combat  ends,  and  slowly 

Clears  the  smoke  from  out  the  skies ; 
When,  far  down  the  purple  distance, 

All  the  noise  of  battle  dies ; 
When  the  last  night's  solemn  shadow 

Settles  down  on  you  and  me ; — 
May  the  love  that  never  failetli 

Take  our  souls  eternally ! 


PATRIOTISM.— T.  F.  Meagher. 

Be^reft  of  patriotism,  the  heart  of  a  nation  will  be  cold 
and  cramped  and  sordid  ;  the  arts  will  have  no  enduring 
impulse,  and  commerce  no  invigorating  soul ;  society 
will  degenerate,  and  the  mean  and  vicious  triumph. 
Patriotism  is  not  a  wild  and  glittering  passion,  but  a 
glorious  reality.  The  virtue  that  gave  to  paganism  its 
dazzling  lustre,  to  barbarism  its  redeeming  trait,  to  Chris- 
tianity its  heroic  form,  is  not  dead.  It  still  liv^es  to  con- 
sole, to  sanctify  humanity.  lu  every  clime  it  has  its  altar, 
its  worship  and  festivities. 

On  the  heathered  hill  of  Scotland  the  sword  of  Wal- 
lace is  yet  a  bright  tradition.  The  genius  of  France,  in 
the  brilliant  literature  of  the  day,  pays  its  high  homage 
to  the  piety  and  heroism  of  the  young  Maid  of  Orleans. 
In  her  new  Senate-hall,  England  bids  her  sculptor  i)lace, 
among  the  effigies  of  her  greatest  sons,  the  images  of 
Hampden  and  of  Russell.  In  the  gay  and  graceful  cap- 
ital of  Belgium,  the  daring  hand  of  Geefs  has  reared  a 
monument,  full  of  glorious  meaning,  to  the  three  hun- 
dred martyrs  of  the  revolution. 

By  the  soft,  blue  Avaters  of  Lake  Lucerne  stands  the 
chapel  of  William  Tell.  On  the  anniversary  of  his  re- 
volt and  victory,  across  those  waters,  as  they  glitter  in 
the  July  sun,  skim  the  light  boats  of  the  allied  cantons. 
From  the  prows  hang  the  banners  of  the  republic,  and, 
as  they  near  the  sacred  spot,  the  daughters  of  Ijucerne 
chant  the  hymns  of  their  old  poetic  land.     Then  bursts 


58  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

forth  the  glad  Te  Deum,  and  heaven  again  hears  the 
voice  of  that  wild  chivalry  of  the  mountains  which,  five 
centuries  since,  pierced  the  white  eagle  of  Vienna,  and 
flung  it  bleeding  on  the  rocks  of  Uri. 

At  Innspruck,  in  the  black  aisle  of  the  old  cathedral, 
the  peasant  of  the  Tyrol  kneels  before  the  statue  of  An- 
dreas Hofer.  In  the  defiles  and  valleys  of  the  Tyrol, 
who  forgets  the  day  on  which  he  fell  within  the  walls  of 
Mantua?  It  is  a  festive  day  all  through  this  quiet,  noble 
land.  In  that  old  cathedral  his  inspiring  memory  is  re- 
called amid  the  pageantries  of  the  altar ;  his  image  ap- 
pears in  every  house ;  his  victories  and  virtues  are  pro- 
claimed in  the  songs  of  the  people ;  and  when  the  sun 
goes  d»wn,  a  chain  of  fires,  in  the  deep  red  light  of 
"which  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings  and  holds  his  giddy 
revelry,  proclaims  the  glory  of  the  chief  whose  blood 
has  made  his  native  land  a  sainted  spot  iii  Europe. 
Shall  not  all  join  in  this  glorious  worship?  Shall  not  all 
have  the  faith,  the  duties,  the  festivities  of  patriotism  ? 


A  CATASTROPHE. 


On  a  pine  wood-shed,  in  an  alley  dark,  where  scattered 
moonbeams,  shifting  through  a  row  of  tottering  chimneys 
and  awnings  torn  and  drooping,  fell,  strode  back  and 
forth,  with  stiff  and  tense-drawn  muscles  and  peculiar 
tread,  a  cat. 

His  name  was  Nerval ;  on  yonder  neighboring  sheds 
his  father  caught  the  rats  that  came  in  squads  from  the 
streets  beyond  Dupont,  in  search  of  food  and  strange 
adventure. 

Grim  war  he  courted,  and  his  twisted  tail,  and  spine 
upheaving  in  fantastic  curves,  and  claws  distended,  and 
ears  flatly  pressed  against  a  head  thrown  back,  defiantly 
told  of  impending  strife. 

With  eyes  a-gleam  and  screeching  blasts  of  war,  and 
steps  as  silent  as  the  falling  dew,  young  Norval  crept 


NUMBER    SIX.  59 

along  the  splintered  edge,  and  gazed  a  moment  through 
the  darkness  down,  with  tail  a-\vag  triumphantly. 

Then  with  an  imprecation  and  a  growl — perhaps  an 
oath  in  direst  vengeance  hissed — he  started  back,  and 
crooked  his  body  like  a  letter  S,  or  like  a  U  inverted  (H) 
stood  in  fierce  expectancy. 

'Twas  Avell.  With  eyeballs  glaring,  and  ears  aslant, 
and  oj)en  mouth,  in  which  two  rows  of  fangs  stood  forth 
in  sharp  and  dread  conformity,  slap  ! — up  a  post  from  out 
the  dark,  below,  a  head  appeared. 

A  dreadful  tocsin  of  determined  strife  young  Norval 
uttered,  then,  with  a  face  unblanched  and  mustache 
standing  straight  before  his  nose,  and  tail  liung  wildly 
to  the  passing  breeze,  stepped  back  in  cautious  invita- 
tion to  the  foe. 

Approaching  each  other,  with  preparations  dire,  each 
cat  surveyed  the  vantage  of  the  field.  Around  they 
walked,  with  tails  uplifted  and  backs  high  in  the  air, 
while  from  their  mouths,  in  accents  hissing  with  con- 
suming rage,  dropped  brief  but  awful  sentences  of  hate. 

Twice  around  they  went  in  circle,  each  eye  upon  the 
foe  intently  bent,  then  sideways  moving, — as  is  wont 
Avith  cats, — gave  one  long-drawn,  terrific,  savage  yeow 
and  buckled  in. 

Yeow — spit — rip — scratch — there  goes  an  eye!  Slap — 
yeow — spit — rip — there  goes  an  ear !  Hirr-ra-r-r-oogh- 
yeow-hay  !     Curse  you — cat  you — maul  you — cat ! 

The  fur  flew.  A  mist  of  hair  hung  o'er  the  battle 
field.  High  above  the  din  of  passing  wagons  rose  the 
dreadful  tumult  of  struggling  cats.  So  gleamed  their 
eyes  in  frenzy,  that  to  me  who  saw  the  conflict  from  a 
window  near,  naught  else  was  plain  but  gory  stars  that 
moved  in  orbs  eccentric. 

Silence  supervenes !  Then  a  low,  tremulous  wail,  like 
the  expiring  note  of  a  wheezy  hand-organ,  breaks  the 
awful  stillness.  A  shiver — a  shake  of  the  tail,  a  gasp, 
and  the  cat-as-trojjhe  is  consummated.  A  cat  is  in 
shadow  land. 


60  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICESELECTIONS 

Then  went  I  forth  with  lantern,  and  the  field  surveyed ; 
what  saw  I  ? 

Six  claws,  one  ear,  of  teeth,  perhaps  a  handful ;  naught 
else  except  a  solitary  tail.  That  tail  was  Nerval's  ;  by 
a  ring  I  knew  it.  The  ear  was — but  we'll  let  the  mat- 
ter pass.     The  tail  will  do  without  the  ear. 


GRADATIM.— J.  G.  Holland. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true ; 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God — 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  our  feet : 
By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain ; 
By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain. 

And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

"We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light ; 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and  ere  the  night 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray. 

And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things. 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men ! 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way, — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls ; 

But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls. 
And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies. 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 


NUMBER    SIX.  61 


MISCHIEF  MAKERS. 

Oh,  could  there  in  this  world  be  found 
Some  little  spot  of  happy  ^^round, 
Where  village  pleasures  might  go  round, 

Without  the  village  tattling! 
How  doubly  blest  that  place  would  be, 
Where  all  might  dwell  in  liberty, 
Free  from  the  bitter  misery 

Of  gossips'  endless  prattling. 

If  such  a  spot  were  really  known, 
Dame  Peace  might  claim  it  as  her  own, 
And  in  it  she  might  fix  her  throne. 

Forever  and  forever ; 
There,  like  a  queen,  might  reign  and  live, 
While  every  one  would  soon  forgive 
The  little  slights  tliey  might  receive 

And  be  offended  never. 

'Tis  mischief-makers  that  remove 

Far  from  our  hearts  the  warmth  of  love, 

And  lead  us  all  to  disapprove 

What  gives  another  pleasure. 
They  seem  to  take  one's  part,  but  when 
Thej^'ve  heard  our  cares,  unkindly  then 
They  soon  retail  them  all  again, 

Mixed  with  their  poisonous  measure. 

And  then  they've  such  a  cunning  way 
Of  telling  ill-meant  tales;  they  say, 
"  Don't  mention  what  I've  said,  I  pray, 

I  would  not  tell  another; — " 
Straight  to  your  neighbor's  house  they  go, 
Narrating  everything  they  know ; 
And  break  the  peace  of  high  and  low, 

Wife,  husband,  friend,  and  brother. 

Oh,  that  the  mischief-making  crew 
Were  all  reduced  to  one  or  two, 
And  tliey  were  ])ainted  red  oi-  blue. 

That  every  one  migiit  know  them  I 
Then  would  our  villagers  forget 
To  rage  and  quarrel,  fume  and  fret, 
Or  fall  into  an  angry  pi't, 

With  things  so  much  below  them. 


62  OXE    HrXDKED    CHOICE    SKLECTIOXS 

Far  'tis  a  sad,  degrading  park. 
To  make  another  s  bosom  smarts 
And  plant  a  dagger  in  the  heart 

We  ought  to  love  and  cherish- 
Then  let  us  evermore  be  found 
In  quietness  with  ail  aroond, 
"While  friendship.  Jot.  and  peace  abound; 

And  angry  feelings  perish ! 


THE  LAST  MILE-S^O^*ES-— P:^^-.:.  Kivebsw 

Sixty  years  throagh  shine  and  shadow, — 

Sixty  years,  my  gemie  wife. 
Yon  and  I  have  walked  tc^nher 

Down  the  ragged  road  of  life. 
From  the  hills  of  spring  we  started. 

And  throo^  all  the  summer  land. 
And  the  fraitfal  autumn  cotmtry. 

We  have  joomeyed  hand  in  hand. 

We  have  b«?me  the  heat  and  barden. 

Toiling  painihlly  and  slow ; 
We  have  gathered  in  our  harvest 

With  rejoicing  long  ago. 
Leave  the  uplands  for  our  children. 

They  are  strong  to  sow  and  reap : 
Through  the  quiet  winter  lowlands 

Xow  oar  level  way  we  keep. 

Tls  a  dreary  country,  darling. 

You  and  I  are  pe-  "-  r  *hrough ; 
But  the  road  lies  s:      .        efore  us, 

And  the  mUes  are  short  and  few ; 
Xo  more  dangers  to  enojunter, 

Xo  more  hills  to  climb,  true  friend ; 
Nothing  now  bat  simple  walking. 

Till  we  reach  oar  joamey's  end. 

We  have  had  oar  time  of  ^adness ; 

Twas  a  prood  and  happy  day— 
Ah !  the  proodest  of  oar  joamey — 

When  we  felt  that  we  eoold  say 
Of  the  children  God  had  given. 

Looking  fondly  on  the  ten. 


I 


"Lovely  womec  s^e  '.-zr  da.ii:L:er=, 
And  oar  sons  are  vtokAe  jnen.  T 

We  have  had  oar  time  of  SDrrow, 
And  oar  time  <rf  ansloos  &arB, 

When  Tre  oooid  not  see  the  nule-stonfis 

Throo^  the  UindiieaB  of  oar  tears. 
In  the  smuiT  gonimer  ooantiy. 

Far  behind  as,  little  'Slaj. 
Then  darting  Willie,  toe.  greir  weary. 
And  we  left  them  on  the  "way. 

Are  yoa  ^oc^dng  badbrard,  moths-. 
That  yoa  stamUe  in  the  snow? 

I  am  still  yoar  golde  and  sts&,  de^*. 
Lean  yoar  wei^t  upon  me,  so. 

Xow  ooT  roQ/l  is  growing  narrow. 
And — what  is  it,  wife,  yo-n  say  ? 

Yes ;  I  know  yonr  eyes  are  tii-m,  dear, 
Bat  we  have  not  lost  the  way. 

Cheer  thee !  cheer  thee !  Mthfcl-heaited ! 

Jnst  a  little  way  before 
Lies  the  great  Eternal  Gty 

Of  the  King  that  we  adore. 
I  can  see  the  shining-  spires ; 

And  the  King, — the  King,  my  dear! 
AVe  have  serve<i  him  long  and  hnmbly. 

He  will  bless  us,  do  not  fear' 

Ah !  the  snow  falls  fest  and  heavy ; 

How  yon  shiver  with  the  ct<ld ! 
Let  me  wrap  y<>ar  mantle  closer. 

And  my  arm  ar«:>Tiiid  yctu  fold. 
We  are  weak  and  faint  and  weary. 

And  the  «Tin"s  low  in  the  west. 
We  have  reached  the  gates,  my  darnng, 

L^  cfi  tarry  here  and  n^ 


DEAF  AS  A  POST. 

In  the  prcKxssion  that  followed  good  DeaoMi  Jooes  to 
the  grave,  last  summer,  Rev.  Mr.  Sampler,  the  new 
clergyman  of  Easttown,  found  himself  in  the  same  car- 
riage with  an  elderly  man  whom  he  had  never  met  be- 


64  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

fore.  They  rode  in  grave  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
when  the  clergyman  endeavored  to  improve  the  occasion 
by  serious  conversation. 

"This  is  a  solemn  duty  in  which  we  are  engaged,  my 
friend,"  he  said. 

"Hey?  what  do  you  say,  sir?"  the  old  man  returned. 
"Can't  you  speak  louder?  I'm  hard  of  hearin'." 

"I  was  remarking,"  shouted  the  clergyman,  "that  this 
is  a  solemn  road  we  are  traveling  to-day." 

"Sandy  road!  You  don't  call  this  'ere  sandy,  do  ye? 
Guess  you  ain't  been  down  to  the  south  deestric.  There's 
a  stretch  of  road  on  the  old  pike  that  beats  all  I  ever 
see  for  hard  travelin'.  Only  a  week  before  Deacon  Jones 
was  tuk  sick,  I  met  him  drivin'  his  ox-team  along  there, 
and  the  sand  was  very  nigh  up  to  the  hubs  of  the  wheels. 
The  deacon  used  to  get  dretful  riled  'bout  that  piece  of 
road,  and  Easttown  does  go  ahead  of  all  creation  for  sand." 

The  young  clergyman  looked  blank  at  the  unexpec- 
ted turn  given  to  his  remark ;  but  quickly  recovering 
himself  ami  raising  his  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  he  re- 
sumed the  conversation. 

"  Our  friend  has  done  with  all  the  discomforts  of  earth," 
he  said,  solemnly.  "A  small  spot  of  ground  will  soon 
cover  his  poor  senseless  clay." 

"  Did  you  say  clay,  sir  f  cried  the  old  man,  eagerly. 
"Tain't  nigh  so  good  to  cover  sand  with  as  medder 
loam.  Sez  I  to  Mr.  Brewer,  last  town-meetin'  day,  '  If 
you'd  cart  on  a  few  dozen  loads,  there's  acres  of  it  on  the 
river  bank,'  sez  I,  '  you'd  make  as  pretty  a  piece  of  road 
as  there  is  in  Har'ford  county.'  But  we  are  slow  folks 
in  Easttown,  sir." 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  the  clergyman  at  that 
moment  that  the  smell  of  new  made  hay  from  a  neighbor- 
ing field  suggested  a  fresh  train  of  thought. 

"Look,"  said  he,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand, 
"what  an  emblem  of  the  brevity  of  human  life!  As  the 
grass  of  the  field,  so  man  flourisheth,  and  to-morrow  he 
is  cut  down." 


NUMBER    SIX.  65 

"/  dont  calculate  to  cut  mine  till  next  ^veeJc,"  said  his 
companion.  "  You  mus'n't  cut  grass  too  'arly  ;  and  then 
again,  you  mus'n't  cut  it  too  late." 

"My  friend,"  shrieked  the  clergyman,  in  a  last  despe- 
rate attempt  to  make  himself  understood,  "  this  is  no  place 
for  vain  conversation.  We  are  approaching  the  narrow 
house  appointed  for  all  the  living." 

They  were  entering  the  graveyard,  but  the  old  man 
stretched  his  neck  from  the  carriage  window  in  the  oppo- 
site direction. 

"Do  you  meah  Squire  Hubbard's  over  yonder  f  'Tis 
rather  narrer.  They  build  all  them  new-fangled  houses 
that  way  now-a-days.  To  my  mind  they  ain't  nigh  so 
handsome  nor  so  handy  as  the  old-fashioned  square  ones 
with  a  broad  entry  i-unnin'  clear  through  to  the  back 
door.  Well,  this  is  the  getting-out  place,  ain't  it  ?  Much 
obleeged  to  ye,  parson,  for  your  entertaining  remai'ks." 


THE  LAST  MAN.— TnoMAS  Campbell. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  Sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  sliall  assume 

Its  immortality ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep. 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  time ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mold 
That  shall  Croation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare. 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan; 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonelj'  man. 
Some  had  exi)ir('d  in  light,— the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands. 

In  j)lague  and  famine  some. 
Eartli's  cities  lia<l  no  souiid  nor  tread; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  tlie  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 


66  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by. 
Saying,  "  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go ; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  How. 

"  What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  lire,  flood,  and  earth 

The  vassals  of  his  will  ? 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day  ; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
Arid  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

**  Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men. 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again : 
Its  piteous  i^ageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe  ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred. 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword. 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

"  Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies. 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death. 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

"This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 
Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark : 


NUMBER    SIX. 

Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 
No !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine; 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory, 
And  took  the  sting  from  Death  I 

"  Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up, 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  sball  taste, — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality. 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  !" 


67 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVE. 


"It's  only  a  little  grave,"  they  said, 

"Only  just  a  child  that's  dead  ;" 

And  so  they  carelessly  turned  away 

From  the  mound  the  spade  had  made  that  day. 

Ah  !  they  did  not  know  how  deep  a  shade 

That  little  grave  in  our  home  had  made. 

I  know  the  coffin  was  narrow  and  small, 

One  yard  would  have  served  for  an  ample  pall ; 

And  one  man  in  his  arms  could  have -borne  away 

The  rosel>ud  and  its  freight  of  clay. 

But  I  know  tliat  darling  hopes  were  hid 

Beneath  that  little  coffin  lid. 

I  knew  that  a  mother  had  stood  that  day 
With  foMcd  hands  by  that  form  of  clay  ; 
I  knew  that  burning  tears  were  liid 
"'Neath  the  drooping  lash  and  aching  lid;" 
And  I  knew  her  liji,  and  cheek  and  brow. 
Were  almost  as  white  as  her  baby's  now. 

I  knew  that  some  things  were  hid  away, — 
The  crimson  frock  and  wrappings  gay, 


68  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  little  sock  and  half-worn  shoe, 
The  cap  with  its  plumes  and  tassels  blue ; 
An  empty  crib  with  its  covers  spread, 
As  white  as  the  face  of  the  sinless  dead. 

'Tis  a  little  grave,  but  oh,  beware ! 

For  world-wide  hopes  are  buried  there; 

And  ye,  perhaps,  in  coming  years. 

May  see  like  her,  through  blinding  tears, 

How  much  of  light,  how  much  of  joy, 

Is  buried  with  an  only  boy  ! 


DUTY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR. 

Geo.  W.  Curtis. 

Do  you  ask  me  our  duty  as  scholars?  Gentlemen, 
thought,  which  the  scholar  represents,  is  life  and  liberty. 
There  is  no  intellectual  or  moral  life  without  liberty. 
Therefore,  as  a  man  must  breathe  and  see"  before  he  can 
study,  the  scholar  must  have  liberty,  first  of  all ;  and  as 
the  American  scholar  is  a  man  and  has  a  voice  in  his 
own  government,  so  his  interest  in  political  affairs  must 
precede  all  others.  He  must  build  his  house  before  he 
can  live  in  it.  He  must  be  a  perpetual  inspiration  of 
freedom  in  politics.  He  must  recognize  that  the  intelli- 
gent exei'cise  of  political  rights,  which  is  a  privilege  in  a 
monarchy,  is  a  duty  in  a  republic.  If  it  clash  with  his 
ease,  his  retirement,  his  taste,  his  study,  let  it  clash,  but 
let  him  do  his  duty.  The  course  of  events  is  incessant, 
but  when  the  good  deed  is  slighted,  the  bad  deed  is  done. 

Scholars,  you  would  like  to  loiter  in  the  pleasant  paths 
of  study.  Every  man  loves  his  ease, — loves  to  please 
his  taste.  But  into  how  many  homes  along  this  lovely 
valley  came  the  news  of  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill, 
eighty-years  ago;  and  young  men  like  us,  studious,  fond 
of  leisure,  young  lovers,  young  husbands,  young  brothers 
and  sonSj  knew  that  they  must  forsake  the  wooded  hill- 
side, the  river  meadows,  golden  with  harvest,  the  twi- 
light walk  along  the  river,  the  summer  Sunday  in  the 


KUMBEK    SIX.  69 

old  church,  parents,  \\ife,  child,  and  go  away  to  uncertain 
war.  Putnam  heard  the  call  at  his  plough,  and  turned 
to  go,  Avithout  w^aiting.     Wooster  heard  it,  and  obeyed. 

Not  less  lovely  in  those  days  was  this  peaceful  valley, 
not  less  soft  this  summer  air.  Life  was  dear,  and  love  as 
beautiful  to  those  young  men  as  they  are  to  us  who  stand 
upon  their  graves.  But,  because  they  were  so  dear  and 
beautiful,  those  men  went  out,  bravely  to  fight  for  them 
and  fall.  Through  these  very  streets  they  marched,  who 
never  returned.  They  fell,  and  were  buried  ;  but  they 
can  never  die.  Not  sweeter  are  the  flowers  that  make 
your  valley  fair,  not  greener  are  the  pines  that  give  your 
river  its  name,  than  the  memory  of  the  brave  men  who 
died  for  freedom.  And  yet  no  victim  of  those  days, 
sleeping  under  the  green  sod  of  Connecticut,  is  more 
truly  a  martyr  of  liberty  than  every  murdered  man 
whose  bones  lie  bleaching  in  this  summer  sun  upon  the 
silent  plains  of  Kansas.    ■ 

Gentlemen,  while  we  read  history,  we  make  history. 
Because  our  tathers  fought  in  this  great  cause,  we  must 
not  hope  to  escape  fightiug.  Because,  two  thousand 
years  ago,  Leonidas  stood  against  Xerxes,  we  must  not 
suppose  that  Xerxes  was  slain,  nor,  thank  God,  that 
Le(jnidas  is  not  immortal.  Every  great  crisis  of  humaa 
history  is  a  pass  of  Thermopylre,  and  there  is  always  a 
Leonidas,  and  his  three  hundred  to  die  in  it,  if  they 
cann(jt  conquer.  And  so  long  as  liberty  has  one  martyr, 
so  long  as  one  drop  of  blood  is  poured  out  for  her,  so 
long  from  that  single  drop  of  bloody  sweat  of  the  agony 
of  humanity  shall  spring  liosts  as  countless  as  the  forest- 
leaves,  and  mighty  as  the  sea. 

Brothers !  the  call  has  come  to  us.  I  bring  it  to  you 
in  these  calm  retreats.  I  summon  you  to  the  great  fight 
of  freedom.  I  call  upon  you  to  say,  with  your  voices 
whenever  the  occasion  offers,  and  willi  your  votes  when 
the  day  comes,  that  upon  these  fertih;  fields  of  Kansas, 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  continent,  the  upas-tree  of  slavery, 


70  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

dripping  death-dews  upon  national  prosperity  and  upon 
free  labor,  shall  never  be  planted.  I  call  upon  you  to 
plant  there  the  palm  of  peace,  the  vine  and  the  olive  of 
a  Christian  civilizntion.  I  call  upon  you  to  determine 
whether  this  great  experiment  of  human  freedom,  which 
has  been  the  scorn  of  desi)otisni,  shall,  by  its  failure,  be 
also  our  sin  and  shame.  I  call  upon  you  to  defend  the 
hope  of  the  world. 

The  voices  of  our  brothers  who  are  bleeding,  no  less 
than  of  our  fathers  who  bled,  summon  us  to  this  battle. 
Shall  the  children  of  unborn  generations,  clustering  over 
that  vast  Western  empire,  rise  up  and  call  us  blessed,  or 
cursed  ?  Here  are  our  Marathon  and  Lexington  ;  here 
are  our  heroic  fields.  The  hearts  of  all  good  men  beat 
with  us.  The  fight  is  fierce — the  issue  is  with  God.  But 
God  is  good. 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN.— Will  Carleton. 

They've  got  a  brand  new  organ,  Sue, 

For  all  their  fuss  an'  search  ; 
They've  done  just  as  they  said  they'd  do, 

And  fetched  it  into  church. 
They're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  seen, 

And  on  the  preacher's  right 
They've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine, 

In  everybody's  sight. 
They've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'in  my  voice  an'  vote ; 
For  it  was  never  /«;/  desire 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note  ! 

I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true 

For  five  an'  thirty  year ; 
I've  done  what  seeined  my  part  to  do. 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear ; 
I've  sung  the  hymns  both  slow  and  quick, 

Just  as  the  preacher  read  ; 
And  twice,  when  Deacon  Tubbs  was  sick, 

I  took  the  fork  an'  led  ! 
And  now,  their  bold,  new-fangled  ways 

le  comiu'  all  about ; 


NUMBER    SIX.  71 


And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 
Am  fairly  crowded  out ! 

To-day,  the  preacher,  good  old  dear 

With  tears  all  in  his  eyes, 
Read — "  I  can  re^id  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies ;" 
I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  hymn, 

I  s'pose  I  al'ays  will ; 
It  somehow  gratifies  my  whim, 

In  good  old  Ortonville  ; 
But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  couldn't  catch  a  word ; 
They  sung  the  most  dog-gonedest  thing, 

A  body  ever  heard ! 

Some  worldly  chaps  was  standin'  near; 

An'  when  I  seed  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I'd  chase  their  tune  along, 

An'  tried  with  all  mj^  might ; 
But  though  my  voice  is  good  and  strong, 

I  couldn't  steer  it  right ; 
When  they  was  high,  then  I  was  low. 

An'  also  contra'  wise; 
And  I  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow, 

To  "  mansions  in  the  skies." 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know 

They  playcil  a  little  tune; 
I  didn't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon.    . 
I  i)it€lied  it  pretty  middlin'  high, 

I  fetched  a  lusty  Ume, 
But  oh,  alas !  I  found  tliat  I 

Was  singing  there  alone ! 
They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told  ; 

But  I  had  done  my  best : 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Acix»ss  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  sister  Brown — I  could  but  look — 

She  sits  right  front  of  me  ; 
She  never  was  no  singin'  book, 

An'  never  meant  to  be  ; 

MM 


72  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 

The  best  she  could,  she  said ; 
She  understood  the  time,  right  through, 

An'  kep'  it  with  her  head ; 
But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  oh, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough  ! 
It  kep'  her  head  a  bobbin'  so, 

It  e'en  a'most  came  off! 

An'  Deacon  Tubbs, — he  all  broke  down, 

As  one  might  well  suppose, 
He  took  one  look  at  sister  Brown, 

And  meekly  scratched  his  nose. 
He  looked  his  hymn  book  through  and  through, 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat. 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew. 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout. 

He  didn't  even  rise. 
But  drawed  his  red  bandanner  out, 

An'  wiped  his  weepin'  eyes. 

I've  been  a  sister,  good  an'  true, 

For  five  an'  thirty  year  ; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do. 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear ; 
But  death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know. 

For  he  is  on  my  track  ; 
And  some  day,  I  to  church  will  go 

And  never  more  come  back  ; 
And  when  the  folks  get  up  to  sing — 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be — 
I  do  not  want  no  patent  thing 

A-squealin'  over  me !  ^^^,^  „ j,^^^^  _g^^^^^^  „ 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

No,  children,  my  trips  are  over, 

The  engineer  needs  rest ; 
My  hand  is  shakj' ;  I'm  feeling 

A  tugging  pain  in  my  breast ; 
But  here,  as  the  twilight  gathers, 

I'll  tell  you  a  tale  of  the  road. 


NUMBER    SIX. 

That'll  ring  in  my  head  forever, 
Till  it  rests  beneath  the  sod. 

We  were  lumbering  along  in  the  twilight, 

The  night  was  dropping  her  shade, 
And  the  "Gladiator"  labored, — 

Climbing  the  top  of  the  grade ; 
The  train  was  heavily  laden. 

So  I  let  my  engine  rest, 
Climbing  the  grading  slowly. 

Till  we  reached  the  upland's  crest. 

I  held  my  watch  to  the  lamplight — 

Ten  minutes  behind  the  time ! 
Lost  in  the  slackened  motion 

Of  the  up  grade's  heavy  climb ; 
But  I  knew  the  miles  of  the  prairie 

That  stretched  a  level  track, 
So  I  touched  the  gauge  of  the  boiler, 

And  pulled  the  lever  back. 

Over  the  rails  a-gleaming. 

Thirty  an  hour,  or  so, 
The  engine  leaped  like  a  demon, 

Breathing  a  tiery  glow ; 
But  to  me — a-hold  of  the  lever — 

It  seemed  a  child  alway. 
Trustful  and  always  ready 

My  lightest  touch  to  obey. 

I  was  proud,  you  know,  of  my  engine, 

Holding  it  steady  Ihat  night, 
And  my  eye  on  the  track  before  lis, 

Ablaze  with  the  Drummond  light. 
"We  neared  a  well-known  cabin, 

Where  a  child  of  three  or  four, 
As  the  up  train  passed,  oft  called  me, 

A-playing  around  the  door. 

My  hand  was  firm  on  the  throttle 

As  we  swept  around  the  curve. 
When  something  afar  in  the  shadow, 

Struck  (ire  through  every  nerve. 
I  sounded  the  brakes,  and  crashed 

The  reverse  lever  down  in  dismay, 
Groaning'  to  Heaven —  eighty  jiuces 

Ahead  was  the  child  at  its  play  I 


73 


74  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

One  instant — one,  awful  and  only — 

The  world  Hew  round  in  my  brain, 
And  I  smote  my  hand  hard  on  my  forehead 

To  keep  back  the  terrible  pain ; 
The  train  I  thought  flying  forever, 

With  mad,  irresistible  roll. 
While  the  cries  of  the  dying,  the  night  wind 

Swept  into  my  shuddering  soul. 

Then  I  stood  on  the  front  of  the  engine, — 

How  1  got  there  I  never  could  tell,— 
My  feet  planted  down  on  the  crossbar, 

Where  the  cow-catcher  slopes  to  the  rail ; 
One  hand  firmly  locked  on  the  coupler, 

And  one  held  out  in  the  night, 
While  my  eye  gauged  the  distance,  and  measured 

The  speed  of  our  slackening  flight. 

My  mind,  thank  the  Lord  !  it  was  steady; 

I  saw  the  bright  curls  of  her  hair. 
And  the  face  that,  turning  in  wonder, 

Was  lit  by  the  deadly  glare.  j 

"    I  know  little  more,  but  I  heard  it, —      '  t 

The  groan  of  the  anguished  wheels,  »  I 

And  remember  thinking — the  engine  i 

In  agony  trembles  and  reels.  I 

One  rod  !    To  the  day  of  my  dying  i 

I  shall  think  the  old  engine  reared  back,  i 

And  as  it  recoiled,  with  a  shudder 

I  swept  my  hand  over  the  track ; 
Then  darkness  fell  over  my  eyelids, 

But  I  heard  the  surge  of  the  train, 
And  the  poor  old  engine  creaking. 

As  racked  by  a  deadly  pain. 

They  found  us,  they  said,  on  the  gravel, 

My  fingers  enmeshed  in  her  hair. 
And  she  on  my  bosom  a-climbing, 

To  nestle  securely  there. 
We  are  not  much  given  to  crying — 

We  men  that  run  on  the  road — 
But  that  night,  they  said,  there  were  faces, 

With  tears  on  them,  lifted  to  God. 

For  years,  in  the  eve  and  the  morning 
As  I  neared  the  cabin  again. 


NUMBER    SIX.  75 

My  hand  on  the  lever  pressed  downward 
And  slackened  the  speed  of  the  train. 

When  my  engine  had  blown  her  a  greeting, 
She  always  would  come  to  the  door; 

And  her  look  with  a  fulness  of  heaven 
Blesses  me  evermore. 


I 


DEATH  OF  GAUDENTIS.— Harriet  Annie. 

The  following  inscription  was  found  in  the  Catacombs  by  Mr.  Perret,  upon 
the  tomb  of  the  .\rchitect  uf  the  Coliseum. 

"Thus  thou  keepest  thy  promises  0  Vespasian!  the  rewarding  with  death  him, 
the  crown  of  thy  glory  in  Rome.  Do  rejoice,  0  Gaudeutis!  the  cruel  tyrant 
promised  much,  but  Christ  gave  thee  all,  who  iirei^ai-ed  thee  such  a  mansion." 
— Professor  J.  De  Lmtnuy's  Lectures  on  the  Galacombs. 

Before  Vespasian's  regal  throne 

Skilful  Gaudentis  stood ; 
"  Build  me,"  the  haughty  monarch  cried, 

"A  theatre  for  blood. 
I  know  thou'rt  skilled  in  mason's  work. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  frame 
Eome's  Coliseum  vast  and  wide, 

An  honor  to  thy  name. 

"Over  seven  acres  spread  thy  work, 

And  by  the  gods  of  Rome, 
Thou  shalt  hereafter  by  my  side 

Have  thy  resplendent  home. 
A  citizen  of  Roman  rights, 

Silver  and  golden  store. 
These  shall  be  thine  ;  let  Christian  blood 

But  stain  the  marble  floor." 

So  rose  the  amphitheatre, 

Tower  and  arch  and  tier ; 
There  dawned  a  day  when  martyrs  stood 

Within  that  ring  of  fear. 
But  strong  their  qu(^nchless  trust  in  God, 

And  strong  their  liuman  love. 
Their  eyes  of  faith,  undimmed,  were  fixed 

On  temples  far  above. 

And  thousands  gazed,  in  brutal  joy. 

To  wat<;h  the  Cliristians  die, — 
But  one  l>esidc  V(^s])asian  leaned. 

With  a  strange  light  in  his  eye. 


76  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

What  thoughts  welled  up  within  his  breast, 

As  on  that  group  he  gazed, 
"What  gleams  of  holy  light  from  heaven, 

Upon  his  dark  soul  blazed ! 

Had  he  by  password  gained  access, 

To  the  dark  catacomb, 
And  learned  the  hope  of  Christ's  beloved, 

Beyond  the  rack,  the  tomb  ? 
The  proud  Vespasian  o'er  him  bends, 

"  My  priceless  architect. 
To-day  I  will  announce  to  all 

Thy  privilege  elect, — 

A  free  made  citizen  of  Rome." 

Calmly  Gaudentis  rose, 
And  folding  o'er  his  breast,  his  arms. 

Turned  to  the  Saviour's  foes ; 
And  in  a  strength  not  all  his  own, 

With  life  and  death  in  view, 
The  fearless  architect  exclaimed, 

"  1  am  a  Christian,  too." 

Only  a  few  brief  moments  passed. 

And  brave  Gaudentis  lay 
Within  the  amphitheatre, 

A  lifeless  mass  of  clay. 
"Vespasian  promised  him  the  rights 

Of  proud  imperial  Rome  ; 
But  Christ  with  martyrs  crowned  him  king, 

Beneath  heaven's  cloudless  dome. 


THE  NOBLE  REVENGE. 

The  coffin  was  a  plain  one, — a  poor  miser.ible  pine  ccf« 
fin.  No  flowers  on  the  top  ;  no  lining  of  white  satin  for 
the  pale  brow ;  no  smooth  ribbons  about  the  coarse 
shroud.  The  brown  hair  was  laid  decently  back,  but 
there  was  no  crimped  cap  with  neat  tie  heneatli  the  chin. 
The  sufferer  from  cruel  poverty  smiled  in  her  sleep ;  she 
had  found  bread,  rest  and  health. 

"  I  want  to  see  my  mother,"  sobbed  a  poor  little  child, 
as  the  undertaker  screwed  down  the  top. 


NUMBER    SIX.  77 

"You  cannot;  get  out  of  the  way,  boy;  why  don't 
somebody  take  the  brat  ?" 

"Only  let  me  see  her  one  minute!"  cried  the  help- 
less orphan,  clutching  the  side  of  the  charity  box,  and 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  rough  box,  agonized  tears  streamed 
down  the  cheeks  on  which  no  childish  bloom  ever  lingered. 
Oh !  it  was  painful  to  hear  him  cry  the  words,  "  Only 
once,  let  me  see  mother  only  once  !" 

Quickly  and  brutally  the  heartless  monster  struck  the 
boy  away,  so  that  he  reeled  with  the  blow.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  stood  panting  with  grief  and  rage ;  his  blue 
eyes  distended,  his  lips  sprang  apart,  fire  glittered  through 
his  eyes  as  he  raised  his  little  arm  with  a  most  unchild- 
ish  laugh,  and  screamed,  "When  I  am  a  man,  I'll  be  re- 
venged for  that !" 

There  was  a  coffin  and  a  heap  of  earth  between  the 
mother  and  the  poor  forsaken  child ; — a  monument  much 
stronger  than  granite,  built  in  the  boy's  heart,  keeping 
fresh  the  memory  of  the  heartless  deed. 

*^3jf  vt'  ^l'  ^X'  ^X' 

•^  *^  r^"  *f>.  *X^ 

The  court-house  was  crowded  to  suffocation. 

"  Does  any  one  appear  as  this  man's  counsel  ?"  asked 
the  judge. 

There  was  a  silence  when  he  had  finished,  until,  with 
lips  tightly  pressed  together,  and  a  look  of  strange  intelli- 
gence blended  with  a  haughty  reserve  upon  his  handsome 
features,  a  young  man  stepped  forward  with  a  firm  tread 
and  kindly  eye  to  plead  for  the  erring,  friendless  one.  He 
"was  a  stranger,  but  at  the  first  sentence  there  was  silence. 
The  splendor  of  his  genius  enhanced, — convinced. 

The  man  who  had  been  friendless  was  acquitted. 

"May  God  bless  you,  sir ;  I  cannot,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  no  thanks,"  rei)lied  the  stranger. 

"I — I — I  believe  you  are  unknown  to  me.^' 

"Man,  I  will  refresh  your  memory.  Twenty  years  ago, 
this  day,  you  struck  a  broken-hearted  little  boy  away 
from  his  dear  mother's  coffin.     I  was  that  boy." 


78  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  man  turned  livid. 

"  Have  you  rescued  me  then,  to  take  my  life  V 

"No,  I  have  a  sweeter  revenge.  I  have  saved  the 
life  of  a  man  whose  brutal  conduct  has  rankled  in  my 
breast  for  the  last  twenty  years.  Go  then,  and  remem- 
ber the  tears  of  that  friendless  child." 

The  man  bowed  his  head  in  shame,  and  went  from 
the  presence  of  magnanimity  as  grand  to  him  as  it  was 
incomprehensi  ble. 


TO  THOSE  ABOUT  TO  MARRY. 

That  certain  little  hypocrisies  are  sometimes  practised  upon  each  other  by 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  matrimonial  mood,  is  scarcely  a  matter  of 
doubt ;  but  the  appended  simple  narrative  of  one  of  the  devices  by  which  an 
ardent  maiden  may  be  able  to  preserve  an  appearance  of  invincible  amiability 
before  her  lover,  seems  almost  incredible,  although  given  upon  good  authority. 

When  Jacob  courted  Mary  Jane, 

A  lass  without  a  fault,  he  thought  her. 
And  every  evening,  fair  or  rain, 

Attired  in  all  his  best,  he  sought  her. 
.    She's  honest,  true,  and  kind,  said  he, 

As  she  is  pretty  in  her  features; 
And  if  she'll  only  marry  me. 

We'll  be  the  happiest  of  creatures. 

His  parents,  hearing  how  he  felt, 

A  nd  noticing  his  eager  flurry, 
Said  :  "  Son,  be  cautious.    She  won't  melt. 

Don't  be  in  such  a  precious  hurry  I 
Her  family  are  not  renowned 

For  being  quite  as  meek  as  Moses, 
And  some  who  married  in  it  found 

No  end  of  thorns  among  their  roses." 

**I'll  try  her  temper,"  Jacob  cried, 

"  In  all  the  ways  by  spite  invented ;" 
But  e'er  a  dozen  tricks  he'd  tried, 

His  own  good  nature  sore  repented ; 
The  more  he  teased  to  make  her  mad, 

Instead  of  vixen  spunk  revealing. 
She  only  seemed  as  meekly  sad 

As  comes  of  wounded,  tender  feeling. 


MUMUEB    SIX. 

No  longer  seeing  room  to  doubt 

That  she  was  mild  beyond  expression, 
Our  Jacob  brought  the  question  out, 

And  she  surrendered  at  discretion. 
In  proper  course  the  wedding  came 

^Vith  orange  blooms  and  tears  and  laughter ; 
A  bridal  tour  to  crown  the  same, 

And  a  pretty  cottage  home  thereafter. 

But,  ah,  alas  for  Jacob's  peace ! 

Ere  yet  the  honeymoon  was  over, 
His  Mary's  temper  broke  the  lease 

He  thought  he  had  on  life  in  clover. 
From  being  gentle  as  of  old, 

And  shedding  tears  when  he'd  offend  her, 
She  turned  into  a  perfect  scold, 

As  ugly  as  the  Witch  of  Endor  ! 

Astounded  at  the  fearful  change. 

And  wondering  how  he  had  been  blinded, 
The  hapless  man  could  not  arrange 

The  question's  answer  as  he  minded; 
Till  at  her  father's  house,  one  day, 

He  put  the  query,  quite  emphatic  ; 
"  How  did  you  take  me  in,  that  way  ?" 

Said  she,  "  I'll  show  you  in  the  attic." 

And  then  they  climbed  the  garret  stairs. 

Till,  standing  under  beams  unnumbered, 
The  lady  showed,  with  mocking  airs, 

A  central  post  with  braces  cumbered ; 
"  You  see  it's  nearly  worn  in  twain, 

Or  seems  to  be,  with  weight  it's  carried ; 
But  tvith  my  ieeih  I  gnav.'ed  the  grain, 

A  fortnight,  just,  before  we  married. 

"Whenever  you  would  tease  me  most. 

And  then  had  gone,  and  left  me  beaming, 
I  used  to  come  and  gnaw  that  post. 

To  keep  myself  from  ra<ring  screaming! 
I  knew  you'd  never  know  your  mind. 

If  temper  I  should  show  forbade  you." 
Said  Jacob,  "That,   my  dear,  was  kind; 

But  don't  I  wish  some  other  had  you !" 


MM* 


79 


80      ■  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  MYSTIC  WEAVER. 

The  weaver  at  his  loom  is  sitting, 
Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro ; 

Foot  and  treadle, 

Hand  and  pedal, 
Upward,  downward,  hither,  thither, 
How  the  weaver  makes  them  go: 
As  the  weaver  wills  they  go. 
Up  and  down  the  web  is  plying, 
And  across  the  woof  is  flying; 

What  a  rattling ! 

What  a  battling ! 

What  a  shuttling ! 

What  a  scuttling ! 
As  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 
Threads  in  single,  threads  in  double ; 
How  they  mingle,  what  a  trouble  ! 
Every  color,  what  profusion ! 
Every  motion,  what  confusion ! 
While  the  web  and  woof  are  mingling, 
Signal  bells  above  are  jingling,— 
Telling  how  each  figure  ranges, 
Telling  when  the  color  changes, 
As  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

The  weaver  at  his  loom  is  sitting, 
Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro ; 
Mid  the  noise  and  wild  confusion, 
Well  the  weaver  seems  to  know, 
As  he  makes  his  shuttle  go, 

What  each  motion 

And  commotion, 

What  each  fusion 

And  confusion, 
In  the  grand  result  will  show. 

Weaving  daily, 

Singing  gaily. 
As  he  makes  his  busy  shuttle 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

The  weaver  at  his  loom  is  sitting. 
Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro  ; 


NUMBER    SIX.  81 

See  you  not  how  shape  and  order 
From  the  wild  confusion  grow, 
As  he  makes  his  shuttle  gxj? — 
As  the  web  and  woof  diminish. 
Grows  beyond  the  beauteous  finish, — 

Tufted  plaidings. 

Shapes,  and  shadings ; 

All  the  mystery 

Now  is  history  ;— 
And  we  see  the  reason  subtle, 
Why  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle 
Hither,  thithei',  scud  and  scuttle. 

See  the  Mystic  Weaver  sitting 
High  in  heaven — His  loom  below ; 
Up  aftd  down  the  treadles  go ; 
Takes  for  web  the  world's  long  ages, 
Takes  for  woof  its  kings  and  sages, 
Takes  the  noble  and  their  pages, 
Takes  all  stations  and  all  stages, — 
Thrones  are  bobbins  in  His  shuttle ; 
Armies  make  them  scud  and  scuttle  ; 
"Web  into  the  woof  must  flow. 
Up  and  down  the  nations  go, 
As  the  weaver  wills  they  go ; 

Men  are  sparring, 

Powers  are  jarring. 
Upward,  downward,  hither,  thither, 
Just  like  puppets  in  a  show. 
T"])  and  down  the  web  is  plying, 
And  across  the  woof  is  flying, 

What  a  battling! 

What  a  rattling ! 

Whatashuflling! 

What  a  scuflling ! 
As  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

Calmly  see  the  Mystic  Weaver, 
Throw  his  shuttle  to  and  fro  ; 
Mid  the  noise  and  wild  confusion. 
Well  the  weaver  seems  to  know 
Wliat  each  motion 
And  (•i)mniotir^)n, 
What  each  fusion 
And  confusion. 


82  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTION'S 

In  the  grand  result  will  show, 

As  the  nations, 

Kings  and  stations, 
Upward,  downward,  hither,  thither. 
As  in  mystic  dances,  go. 
In  the  present  all  is  mystery ; 
In  the  past,  'tis  beauteous  history. 
O'er  the  mixing  and  the  mingling. 
How  the  signal  bells  are  jingling  I 
See  you  not  the  weaver  leaving 
Finished  work  behind,  in  weaving? 
See  you  not  the  reason  subtle. 
As  the  web  and  woof  diminish, 
Changing  into  beauteous  finish, 
Why  the  Weaver  makes  his  shuttle. 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle  ? 

Glorious  wonder !  what  a  weaving! 
To  the  dull  beyond  believing ! 
Such,  no  fabled  ages  know. 
Only  Faith  can  see  the  mystery. 
How,  along  the  aisle  of  history 
Where  the  feet  of  sages  go, 
Loveliest  to  the  purest  eyes, 
Grand  the  mystic  tapet  lies, — 
Soft  and  smooth,  and  even  spreading 
As  if  made  for  angels'  treading; 
Tufted  circles  touching  ever, 
Inwrought  figures  fading  never ; 
Every  figure  has  its  plaidings. 
Brighter  form  and  softer  shadings; 
Each  illumined, — what  a  riddle ! 
From  a  cross  that  gems  the  middle. 

'Tis  a  saying — some  reject  it — 
That  its  light  is  all  reflected ; 
That  the  tapet's  hues  are  given 
By  a  sun  that  shines  in  heaven! 
'Tis  believed,  by  all  believing. 
That  great  God  himself  is  weaving, — 
Bringing  out  the  world's  dark  mystery. 
In  the  light  of  truth  and  history  ; 
And  as  web  and  woof  diminish, 
Comes  the  grand  and  glorious  finish  ; 
When  begin  the  golden  ages 
Long  foretold  by  seers  and  sages. 


N. 


NUMBER    SIX.  88 


EMBLEMS.— Richard  Cob. 

Falleth  now  from  off  a  tree, 

A  withered  leaf, 
This  the  lesson  taught  to  thee, 

Life  is  brief! — 

Hear  it  say, 
"Mortal,  soon  thou'lt  follow  me 

To  decay." 

Droppeth  now  from  off  my  head 

A  silver  hair ; — 
Plainer,  preacher  never  said, 

"  For  death  prepare." 

Filled  with  gloom 
We  follow  time  with  silent  tread 

To  the  tomb. 

Mounteth  now  on  wings  of  air 

To  the  sky, 
A  little  dew-drop,  pure  and  clear; 

Far  up  on  high, 

Hear  it  say, 
"All  above  the  earth  is  fiiir ; 

Watch  and  pray. 
Night  or  sorrow  come  not  here, 

'Tis  perfect  day." 


THE  FAITHFUL  LOVERS. 

I'd  been  away  from  her  three  years — about  that — 
And  I  returned  to  find  my  Mary  true; 

And  thou<:lit  I'd  question  her,  nor  doubted  that 
It  was  unnecessary  so  to  do. 

'Twas  by  the  chimney  corner  we  were  sitting; 

"Mary,"  said  I,  "have  you  been  always  true?" 
"Franky,"  says  kIio, —  just  ])ausiiig  in  lier  knitting,- 

"1  don't  think  I've  unfaitliful  been  to  you; 
But  for  the  three  years  past  I'll  tell  you  what 
I've  done  :  then  say  if  I've  been  true  or  not. 

"Wlien  first  you  left,  my  frricf  was  uncontrollable, 
Alone  I  mourned  my  miserable  lot, 


84  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  all  who  saw  me  thought  me  inconsolable, 
Till  Captain  Clifford  came  from  Aldershott ; 
To  flirt  with  him  amused  me  while  'twas  new; 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness.    Do  you  ? 

"The  next — oh  !  let  me  see — was  Freddy  Phipps, 
I  met  him  at  my  uncle's,  Christmas-tide ; 

And  'neath  the  mistletoe,  where  lips  met  lips, 
He  gave  me  his  first  kiss ," — and  here  she  sighed  ; 

"  We  stayed  six  weeks  at  uncle's— how  time  flew  I 

I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness.  Do  you  ? 

"  Lord  Cecil  Fossmore,  only  twenty-one, 

Lent  me  his  horse.     Oh,  how  we  rode  and  raced ! 

We  scoured  the  downs,  we  rode  to  hounds — such  fun  I 
And  often  was  his  arm  around  my  waist — 

That  was  to  lift  me  uj)  or  down.     But  who 

Would  count  that  unfaithfulness.     Do  you? 

"Do  you  know  Reggy  Vere ?    Ah,  how  he  sings ! 

We  met — 'twas  at  a  picnic.     Ah,  such  weather  1 
He  gave  me,  look,  the  first  of  these  two  rings, 

When  we  were  lost  in  Cliefden  woods  together. 
Ah,  what  happy  times  we  spent,  we  two  1 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness  to  you. 

"  I've  got  another  ring  from  him.     D'you  see 
The  plain  gold  circle  that  is  shining  here?" 

I  took  her  hand :  "  Oh,  Mary !  can  it  be 
That  you  " — quoth  she,  "  That  I  am  Mrs.  Vere. 

I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness,  do  you?** 

"No,"  I  replied,  "for  i  am  married,  too." 


HIGH  ART— IMUSIC— Max  Adeler. 

I  have  been  studying  the  horn  to  some  extent  my- 
self. Nothing  is  more  delightful  than  to  have  sweet 
music  at  home  in  the  evenings.  It  lightens  the  burdens 
of  care,  it  soothes  the  ruffled  feelings,  it  exercises  a  refin- 
ing influence  upon  the  children,  it  calms  the  passions 
and  elevates  the  soul.  A  few  months  ago  I  thought 
that  it  might  please  my  family  if  I  learned  to  play  upon 
the  French  horn.     It  is  a  beautiful  instrument,  and  after 


NUMBER    SIX.  85 

hearing  a  man  perform  on  it  at  a  concert  I  resolved  to 
have  one.  I  bought  a  splendid  one  in  the  city,  and 
concluded  not  to  mention  the  fact  to  any  one  until  I  had 
learned  to  play  a  tune.  Then  I  thought  I  would  sere- 
nade Mrs.  A.  some  evening  and  surprise  her.  Accord- 
ingly, I  determined  to  practise  in  the  garret.  When  I 
first  tried  the  horn  I  expected  to  blow  only  a  few  gentle 
notes  until  I  learned  how  to  handle  it ;  but  when  I  put 
the  mouth-piece  to  my  lips  no  sound  was  evoked.  Then 
I  blew  harder.  Still  the  horn  remained  silent.  Then  I 
drew  a  full  breath  and  sent  a  whirlwind  tearing  through 
the  horn  ;  but  no  music  came.  I  blew  at  it  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  I  ran  a  wire  through  the  instrument  to 
ascertain  if  anything  blocked  it  up.  It  was  clear.  Then 
I  blew  softly  and  fiercely,  quickly  and  slowly.  I  opened 
all  the  stops.  I  puffed  and  strained  and  worked  until  I 
feared  an  attack  of  apoplexy.  Then  I  gave  it  up  and 
went  down  stairs ;  and  Mrs.  A.  asked  me  what  made  me 
look  so  red  in  the  face.  For  four  davs  I  labored  v/ith 
that  horn,  and  got  my  lips  so  puckered  up  and  swollen 
that  I  went  about  loi)king  as  if  I  was  perpetually  trying 
to  whistle.  Finally,  I  took  the  instrument  back  to  the 
store  and  told  the  man  that  the  horn  was  defective. 
What  I  wanted  was  a  horn  with  insides  to  it ;  this  one 
had  no  more  nmsic  to  it  than  a  terra-cotta  drainpipe. 
The  man  took  it  in  his  hand,  put  it  to  his  lips  and  played 
"Sweet  Spirit,  Hear  ray  Prayer,"  as  easily  as  if  he  were 
singing.  He  said  that  what  I  needed  was  to  fix  my 
mouth  properly,  and  he  showed  me  how. 

After  working  for  three  more  afternoons  in  the  garret 
the  horn  at  last  made  a  sound.  But  it  was  not  a  cheer- 
ing noise  ;  it  reminded  me  forcibly  ol'  the  groans  uttered 
by  Butterwick's  horse  when  it  was  dying  last  November. 
The  harder  I  blew,  the  more  mournful  became  the  noise, 
and  that  was  the  only  note  I  could  get.  When  I  went 
d(jwn  to  supper,  Mrs.  A.  asked  me  if  I  heard  that  awful 
groaning.     She  said  she  guessed  it  came  from  Twiddler's 


86  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

COW,  for  she  heard  Mrs.  Twiddler  say  yesterday  that  the 
cow  was  sick. 

For  four  weeks  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  that  horn 
but  blood-curdling  groans ;  and,  meantiira,  the  people 
over  the  way  moved  to  another  house  because  our  neigh- 
borhood was  haunted,  and  three  of  our  hired  girls  re- 
signed successively  for  the  same  reason. 

Finally,  a  man  whom  I  consulted  told  me  that  "  No 
One  to  Love "  was  an  easy  tune  for  beginners ;  and  I 
made  an  effort  to  learn  it.    X  nldt^ 

After  three  weeks  of  arduous  practice,  duiing  which 
Mrs.  A.  several  times  suggested  that  it  was  brutal  that 
Twiddler  didn't  kill  that  suffering  cow  and  put  it  out  of 
its  misery,  I  conquered  the  first  three  notes ;  but  there 

I  stuck.     I  could  play  "No  One  to "  and  that  was 

all.  I  performed  "  No  One  to "  over  eight  thou- 
sand times ;  and  as  it  seemed  unlikely  that  I  would  ever 
learn  the  whole  tune,  I  determined  to  try  the  effect  of 
part  of  it  on  Mrs.  A.  About  ten  o'clock  one  night  I  crept 
out  to  the  front  of  the  house  and  struck  up.     First,  "  No 

One  to "  about  fifteen  or  twenty  times,  then  a  few 

of  those  groans,  then  more  of  the  tune,  and  so  forth. 
Then  Butterwick  set  his  dog  on  me,  and  I  suddenly  went 
into  the  house.  Mrs.  A.  had  the  children  in  the  back 
room  and  she  was  standing  behind  the  door  with  my  re- 
volver in  her  hand.  When  I  entered,  she  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  home!  Somebody's 
been  murdering  a  man  in  our  yard.  He  uttered  the 
most  awful  shrieks  and  cries  I  ever  heard.  I  was  dread- 
fully afraid  the  murderers  would  come  into  the  house. 
It's  perfectly  fearful,  isn't  it?" 

Then  I  took  the  revolver  away  from  her — it  was  not 
loaded,  and  she  had  no  idea  that  it  would  have  to  be 
cocked — and  went  to  bed  without  mentioning  the  horn. 
I  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to.  I  sold  it 
the  next  day ;  and  now  if  I  want  music  I  shall  buy  a 
good  hand-organ.     I  know  I  can  play  on  that. 


NUMBER    SIX.  87 


LIGHT.— William  Pitt  Palmer. 

From  the  quickened  womb  of  the  primal  gloom 

The  sun  rolled  black  and  bare, 
Till  I  wove  him  a  vest  for  his  Ethiop  breast 

Of  the  threads  of  my  golden  hair ; 
And  when  the  broad  tent  of  the  lirmament 

Arose  on  its  airy  spars, 
I  penciled  the  hue  of  its  matchless  blue. 

And  spangled  it  round  with  stars. 

I  painted  the  flowers  of  the  Eden  bowers, 

And  their  leaves  of  living  green, 
And  mine  were  the  dyes  in  the  sinless  eyes 

Of  Eden's  virgin  queen  ; 
And  when  the  fiend's  art  on  her  trustful  heart 

Had  fastened  its  mortal  spell. 
In  the  silvery  sphere  of  the  first-born  tear 

To  the  trembling  earth  I  fell. 

When  the  waves  that  burst  o'er  a  world  accursed 

Their  work  of  wrath  had  sped, 
And  the  ark's  lone  few,  the  tried  and  true, 

Came  forth  among  the  dead  ; 
With  the  wondrous  gleams  of  my  braided  beams, 

I  bade  their  terrors  cease, 
As  I  wrote,  on  the  roll  of  the  storm's  dark  scroll, 

God's  covenant  of  peace ! 

Like  a  pall  at  rest  on  a  senseless  breast, 

Night's  funeral  shadow  slept. 
Where  shepherd  swains  on  the  Bethlehem  plains 

Their  lonely  vigils  kept, 
When  I  flashed  on  their  sight  the  heralds  briglit 

Of  heaven's  redeeming  plan. 
As  they  chanted  the  morn  of  a  Saviour  born — 

Joy,  joy  to  the  outcast  man. 

Equal  favor  I  show  to  the  lofty  and  low, 

On  the  just  and  unjust  I  descend; 
E'en  the  blind,  whose  vain  spheres  roll  in  darkness  and 
tears. 

Feel  my  smile,  the  blest  smile  of  a  friend. 
Nay,  the  flower  of  the  waste  by  my  love  is  embraced. 

Ah  the  rose  in  the  garden  of  kings ; 


88  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

At  the  chrysalis  bier  of  the  worm  I  appear, 
And  lo !  the  gay  butterfly's  wings. 

The  desolate  morn,  like  a  mourner  forlorn. 

Conceals  all  the  pride  of  her  charms, 
Till  I  bid  the  bright  hours  chase  the  night  from  her  bowers 

And  lead  the  young  day  to  her  arms ; 
And  when  the  gay  rover  seeks  Eve  for  his  lover. 

And  sinks  to  her  balmy  repose, 
I  wrap  their  soft  rest  by  the  zephyr-fanned  west, 

In  curtains  of  ambier  and  rose. 

From  my  sentinel  steep,  by  the  night-brooded  deep, 

I  gaze  with  unslumbering  eye. 
When  the  cynosure  star  of  the  mariner 

Is  blotted  from  out  of  the  sky  ; 
And  guided  by  me  through  the  merciless  sea. 

Though  sped  by  the  hurricane's  wings, 
His  compassless  bark,  lone,  weltering,  dark, 

To  the  haven-home,  safely  he  brings. 

I  waken  the  flowers  in  their  dew-spangled  bowers, 

The  birds  in  their  chambers  of  green, 
And  mountain  and  plain  glow  with  beauty  again 

As  they  bask  in  my  matinal  sheen.    . 
Oh,  if  such  the  glad  worth  of  my  presence  to  earth, 

Though  fitful  and  fleeting  the  while. 
What  glories  must  rest  on  the  home  of  the  blest, 

Ever  bright  with  the  Deity's  smile ! 


DIRGE.— Charles  G.  Eastman. 

Soflly  !    She  is  lying 

With  her  lips  apart. 
Softly!    She  is  dying 

Of  a  broken  heart. 

Wiisper  !    She  is  going 

To  her  final  rest. 
Whisper!    Life  is  growing 

Dim  within  her  breast. 

GenVy  !    She  is  sleeping ; 

She  has  breathed  her  last. 
Gently!     While  you're  weeping. 

She  to  heaven  has  passed. 


NUMBER    SIX.  89 

THE  SNOW  OF  AGE. 

No  snow  falls  lighter  than  the  snow  of  age ;  but  none  is  heavier,  for  it  never  melts. 

The  figure  is  by  no  means  novel,  but  the  closing  part 
of  the  sentence  is  new  as  well  as  emphatic.  The  Script- 
ures represent  age  by  the  almond-tree,  which  bears  blos- 
soms of  the  purest  white.  "  The  almond-tree  shall 
flourish" — the  head  shall  be  hoary.  Dickens  says  of 
one  of  his  characters  whose  hair  was  turning  gray,  that 
it  looked  as  if  Time  had  lightly  sprinkled  his  snows  upon 
it  in  passing. 

"  It  never  melts  " — no  never.  Age  is  inexorable.  Its 
wheels  must  move  onward — they  know  no  retrograde 
movement.  The  old  man  may  sit  and  sing,  "  I  would  I 
were  a  boy  again  " — but  he  grows  older  as  he  sings.  He 
may  read  of  the  elixir  of  youth,  but  he  cannot  find  it ; 
he  may  sigh  for  the  secrets  of  that  alchemy  which  is  able 
to  make  him  young  again,  but  sighing  brings  it  not.  He 
may  gaze  liackward  with  an  eye  of  longing  upon  the  rosy 
scenes  of  early  years,  as  one  who  gazes  on  his  home  from 
the  deck  of  a  departing  ship  which  every  moment  carries 
him  farther  and  farther  away.  Poor  old  man  !  he  has 
little  more  to  do  than  die. 

"  It  never  melts."  The  snow  of  winter  comes  and  sheds 
its  white  blessings  upon  the  valley  and  the  mountains, 
but  soon  the  sweet  spring  comes  and  smiles  it  all  away. 
Not  so  with  that  upon  the  brow  of  the  tottering  veteran. 
There  is  no  spring  whose  warmth  can  penetrate  its  eter- 
nal frost.  It  came  to  stay.  Its  single  flakes  fell  un- 
noticed— and  now  it  is  drilled  there.  We  shall  see  it 
increase  until  we  lay  the  old  man  in  his  grave.  There 
it  shall  be  absorbed  by  the  eternal  darkness — for  there 
is  no  age  in  heaven". 

Yet  why  speak  of  age  in  a  mournful  strain  ?  It  is 
beautiful,  honorable,  eloquent.  Should  we  sigh  at  the 
proximity  of  death,  when  life  and  the  world  are  so  full 
of  emptiness?  Let  the  old  exult  because  they  are  old. 
If  any  must  weep,  let  it  be  the  young,  at  the  long  succes- 


90  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

sion  of  cares  that  are  before  them.  Welcome  the  snow, 
for  it  is  the  emblem  of  peace  and  of  rest.  It  is  but  a 
temporal  crown  which  shall  fall  at  the  gates  of  paradise, 
to  be  replaced  by  a  brighter  and  a  better. 


THE  PERVERSE  HEN. 

Once  with  an  honest  Dutchman  walking, 
About  his  troubles  he  was  talking; 
The  most  of  which  seemed  to  arise 
From  friends'  and  wife's  perversities. 
When  he  took  breath  his  pipe  to  fill, 
I  ventured  to  suggest  that  will 
Was  oft  the  cause  of  human  ill ; 
That  life  was  full  of  self-denials, 
And  every  man  had  his  own  trials. 
"  'Tis  not  the  will,"  he  quick  replied, 
"But  it's  the  won't  by  which  I'm  tried. 
When  people  will,  I'm  always  glad ; 
'Tis  only  when  they  won't  I'm  mad! 
Contrary  folks,  are  like  mine  hen, 
Who  lays  a  dozen  eggs,  and  then 
Instead  of  sitting  down  to  hatch, 
Runs  off  into  mine  garden  patch ! 
I  goes  and  catches  her  and  brings  her 
And  back  into  her  nest  I  flings  her ; 
But  sit  she  won't,  for  all  I  say, 
She's  up  again  and  runs  away. 
Then  I  was  mad,  as  mad  as  fire, 
But  once  again  I  thought  I'd  try  her. 
So  after  her  I  soon  made  chase, 
And  brings  her  back  to  the  old  jjlace. 
And  then  I  snaps  her  a  great  deal. 
And  does  my  best  to  make  her  feel 
That  she  must  do  as  she  was  bid ; 
But  not  a  bit  of  it  she  did. 
She  was  the  most  contrariest  bird 
Of  which  I  ever  saw  or  heard  ; 
Before  I'd  turn  my  back  again. 
Was  running  off  that  wilful  hen. 
Thinks  I,  I'm  now  a  'used  Up'  man  : 
I  must  adopt  some  other  plan ; 
I'll  fix  her  now,  for  if  I  don't, 


NUMBER    SIX. 

My  will  is  conquered  bj'  her  won't ! 

So  then  I  goes  and  gets  some  blocks, 

And  with  them  makes  a  little  box ; 

And  takes  some  straw,  the  very  best, 

And  makes  the  nicest  kind  of  nest ; 

Then  in  the  nest  the  eggs  I  place. 

And  feel  a  smile  upon  my  face 

As  I  thinks,  now  at  last  I've  got  her, 

When  in  the  little  box  I've  sot  her ; 

For  to  this  little  box  I  did 

Consider  I  must  have  a  lid, 

So  that  she  couldn't  get  away, 

But  in  it,  till  she  hatched,  must  stay. 

And  then  again,  once  more  I  chase  her, 

And  catch,  and  in  the  box  I  place  her. 

Again  I  snaps  her  on  the  head, 

Until  I  fear  she  might  be  dead  ; 

And  then,  when  I  had  made  her  sit  down, 

Immediately  I  claps  the  lid  on. 

And  now,  thinks  I,  I've  got  her  fast. 

She'll  have  to  do  her  work  at  last. 

No  longer  shall  I  stand  the  brunt 

Of  this  old  hen's  confounded  won't  1 

So  I  goes  in  and  tells  mine  folks. 

And  then  I  takes  my  pipe  and  smokes, 

And  walks  about  and  feels  so  good 

That  'wouldn't'  yields  at  length  to  'would.* 

And  as  so  oft  I'd  snapped  the  hen, 

I  took  some  'schnapps'  myself,  and  then 

I  thought  I'd  see  how  the  old  creature 

Was  getting  on  where  I  had  set  her; 

The  lid,  the  box  so  nicely  fits  on, 

I  gently  raised — (hinder  and  blitzen  1 

(Give  me  more  schnapps  and  fill  the  cup !) 

There  she  was  sitting — standing  up  !" 


91 


•A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION.— Adklaiiie  Anne  Procter. 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  tliy  future  give 

('olor  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  I  peril  all  for  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-niglit  for  me. 


92  ONE    IIUXDEEO    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 
As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
"Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost. 
Oh,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost ! 

Look  deeper  still :  if  thou  canst  feel, 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole, 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 
Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future,  day 
My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-sph-it,  change. 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone, — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thine  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

And  answer  to  my  claim. 
That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake  — 

Not  thou — had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but  thou 
Wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not, — I  dare  not  hear; 

The  words  would  come  too  late; 
Yet  I  would  s]iaro  thee  all  remorse, 

So  comfort  thee,  my  fate ; 
AVhatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, 
Remember,  I  would  risk  it  all ! 


NUMBER    SIX.  93 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY  AT  BELZONI'S  EXHIBI- 
TION.—Horace  Smith. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (How  strange  a  story!) 
In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue, — come,  let  us  hear  its  tune  ; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground,  mummy ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon ; 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs,  and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  sphinx's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 

By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade, — 
Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest, — if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 

Has  hob-a-nol)bed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropped  a  half-penny  in  Homer's  hat; 
Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  liand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled; 

For  tliou  wert  dead,  and  IniricMl,  and  end)almcd, 
Ere  Rftmulus  and  Remus  liad  been  suckled: 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  V)ognn 

Long  after  tliy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  coiildst  develop — if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen^ 


94  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTION'S 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 

And  the  great  delutre  still  had  left  it  green ; 
Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent!  Incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?    Then  keep  thy  vows ; 
But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself, — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered, 
What  hast  thou  seen,  what  strange  adventures  numbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations ; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  nations ; 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

]Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis ; 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  v/onder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold : 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  rolled  ; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race? 

Statue  of  flesh, — immortal  of  the  dead ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  1 
Posthumous  man,  who  qnit'st  thy  narrow  bed. 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence  ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning. 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure. 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  ? 
Oh,  let  us  keep  the  sonl  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue, — that  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom ! 


NUMBER    SIX.  95 


ANSWER  OF  "BELZONFS"  MUMMY. 

Child  of  the  later  days  !  th}-  words  have  broken 
A  spell  that  long  has  bound  these  lungs  of  clay, — 

For  since  tliis  smoke-dried  tongue  of  mine  hath  spoken, 
Three  thousiind  tedious  years  have  rolled  away. 

Unswathed  at  length,  I  "  stand  at  ease  "  before  ye, 

List,  then,  oh  list,  while  I  unfold  my  story. 

Thebes  was  my  birth-place, — an  unrivalled  city 
AVith  many  gates, — but  here  I  might  declare 

Some  strange,  plain  truths,  except  that  it  were  pity 
To  blow  a  poet's  fabric  into  air  ; 

Oh,  I  could  read  you  quite  a  Theban  lecture. 

And  give  a  deadly  linish  to  conjecture. 

But  then  you  would  not  have  me  throw  discredit 
On  grave  iiistorians,  or  on  him  who  sung 

The  Iliavl ;  true  it  is,  I  never  read  it, 

But  heard  it  read  when  I  was  very  young. 

An  old  blind  minstrel  for  a  tritling  profit 

Recited  parts, — I  think  the  author  of  iL 

All  that  I  know  about  the  town  of  Homer 

Is  that  they  scarce  would  own  hhn  in  his  day, 

Were  glad,  too,  when  he  proudly  turned  a  roamer, 
Because  by  this  they  saved  their  parish  paj'. 

His  townsmen  would  have  been  ashamed  to  flout  liim, 

Had  they  foreseen  the  fuss  since  made  about  him. 

One  blunder  I  can  fairly  Bet  at  rest! 

He  says  that  men  were  once  more  big  and  bony 
Than  now,  which  is  a  bouncer  at  the  best; 

I'll  just  refer  3'ou  to  our  friend  Belzoni, 
Near  seven  feet  high  ;  in  truth  a  lofty  figure. 
Now  look  at  me  and  tell  me, — am  I  bigger  ? 

Not  half  the  size,  but  then  I'm  sadly  dwindhnl; 

Three  tliousand  years  with  that  embalnnng  glue 
Have  made  a  serious  difference,  and  have  swindled 

My  face  of  all  its  beauty;  there  were  few 
Egyptian  youths  more  gay  ; — behold  th-e  seijuel! 
Nay,  smile  not;  you  and  I  may  soon  be  equal. 

For  this  lean  hand  did  one  day  Imrl  tlic  hmce 
With  mortal  aim;  this  light,  fantastic  toe 

NN 


96  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Threaded  the  mystic  mazes  of  the  dance ; 

This  heart  has  tlirobbed  at  tales  of  love  and  woe ; 
These  shreds  of  raven  hair  once  set  the  fashion; 
This  withered  form  inspired  the  tender  passion. 

In  vain  ;  the  skilful  hand  and  feelings  warm, 
The  foot  that  litrured  in  the  bright  quadrille, 

The  palm  of  genius  and  the  manly  form, 

All  bowed  at  once  to  Death's  mysterious  will, 

Who  sealed  me  up  where  mummies  sound  are  sleeping, 

In  cerecloth  and  in  tolerable  keeping ; — 

Where  cows  and  monkeys  squat  in  rich  brocade, 
And  well-dressed  crocodiles  in  painted  cases, 

Eats,  bats,  and  owls,  and  cats  in  masquerade, 
With  scarlet  llounces,  and  with  varnished  faces ; 

Then  birds,  brutes,  reptiles,  fish,  all  crammed  together, 

With  ladies  that  might  pass  for  well-tanned  leather ; 

Where  Rameses  and  Sabacon  lie  down, 

And  splendid  Psammis  in  his  hide  of  crust. 

Princes  and  heroes, — men  of  high  renown, 
Who  in  their  day  kicked  up  a  mighty  dust ; 

Their  swarthy  munnnies  kicked  up  dust  in  number, 

When  huge  Belzoni  came  to  scare  their  slumber. 

Who'd  think  these  rusty  hams  of  mine  were  seated 
At  Dido's  table,  when  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  "Juno's  hatred"  was  so  well  rei)eated? 
And  ever  and  anon  the  Queen  turned  pale ; 

Meanwhile  the  brilliant  gaslights,  hung  above  her, 

Threw  a  wild  glare  ui)on  her  shipwrecked  lover. 

Ay,  gaslights  !    Mock  me  not, — we  men  of  yore 
Were  versed  in  all  the  knowledge  you  can  mention; 

Who  hath  not  heard  of  Egypt's  peerless  lore. 
Her  patient  toil,  acuteness  of  invention  ? 

Survey  the  proofs; — the  pyramids  are  thriving, 

Old  Memnon  still  looks  young,  and  I'm  surviving. 

A  land  in  arts  and  sciences  prolific, 

On  block  gigantic,  building  up  her  fame. 

Crowded  with  signs  and  letters  hieroglyphic. 
Temples  and  obelisks  her  skill  proclaim ! 

Yet  though  her  art«,nd  toil  unearthly  seem. 

Those  blocks  were  brought  on  railroads  and  by  steam ! 


NUMB  KU    SIX.  97 

How,  when,  and  whj'  our  peoi)le  I'amc  to  reav 
Tho  pyramid  of  Cheops, — mighty  pile  ! — 

This,  and  the  other  secrets,  thou  slialt  hear; 
I  will  unfold,  if  thou  wilt  stay  awhile, 

The  history  of  the  sphinx,  and  who  began  it, 

Our  mystic  works,  and  monsters  made  of  granite. 

Well,  then,  in  grievous  times,  when  King  Cejihrenes, 
But  ah  ! — what's  this!  the  shades  of  bards  and  kings 

Press  on  my  lips  their  fingers  !     What  they  mean  is, 
I  am  not  to  reveal  these  hidden  things. 

Mortal,  farewell !    Till  Science'  self  unbind  them, 

Men  nmst  e'en  take  these  secrets  as  they  find  them. 


MRS.  CAUDLE   HAS  TAKEN   COLD. 
Douglas  Jerrold. 

I'm  not  going  to  contradict  you,  Caudie ;  you  may 
say  what  you  like,  but  I  tliink  I  ought  to  know  my  own 
feelings  better  than  you.  I  don't  wish  to  upbrai'l  you, 
neither ;  I'm  too  ill  for  that ;  but  it's  not  getting  wet  in 
thin  shoes  ;  oh,  no !  it's  my  mind,  Caudle,  my  mind  that's 
killing  me.  Oh,  yes  !  gruel,  indeed  ;  you  think  gruel 
will  cure  a  woman  of  anything  ;  and  you  know,  too,  how 
I  hate  it.  Gruel  can't  reach  what  I  suffer  ;  but,  of  course, 
nobody  is  ever  ill  but  yourself.  Well,  I — I  didn't  mean 
to  say  that ;  but  when  you  talk  in  that  way  about  thin 
shoes,  a  woman  says,  of  course,  what  she  doesn't  mean ; 
she  can't  help  it.  You've  always  gone  on  about  my 
shoes,  when  I  think  I'm  tiie  fittest  judge  of  what  becomes 
me  best.  I  dare  say  'tw(juld  be  all  the  same  to  you  if 
I  put  on  ploughman's  boots  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  make 
a  figure  of  my  feet,  I  can  tell  you.  I've  never  got  cold 
with  the  shoes  I've  worn  yet,  and  it  isn't  likely  I  should 
begin  now. 

No,  Caudle ;  I  wouldn't  wish  to  say  anytliing  to  ac- 
cuse you  ;  no,  goodness  knows,  I  wouldn't  make  you 
uncomf  irtahle  for  the  world — l)ut  the  (;old  I've  got,  I  got 
ten  years  ago.     J  have  nevca*  said  anytliing  alxnit  it — 


98  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

but  it  has  never  left  me.  Yes ;  ten  years  ago  the  day 
before  yesterday.  How  can  I  recollect  it  f  Oh,  very 
well ;  women  remember  things  you  never  think  of;  poor 
souls  !  They've  good  cause  to  Jo  so.  Ten  years  ago,  I 
was  sitting  up  for  you — there  now,  I'm  not  going  to  say 
anything  to  vex  you,  only  do  let  me  speak ;  ten  years 
ago,  I  was  waiting  for  you,  and  I  fell  asleep,  and  the 
fire  went  out,  and  when  I  woke  I  found  I  was  sitting 
right  in  the  draught  of  the  key-hole.  That  was  my 
death.  Caudle,  though  don't  let  that  make  you  uneasy, 
love ;  for  I  don't  think  that  you  meant  to  do  it. 

Ha !  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  call  it  nonsense,  and 
to  lay  your  ill-conduct  upon  my  shoes.  That's  like  a 
man,  exactly !  There  never  was  a  man  yet  that  killed 
his  wife,  who  couldn't  give  a  good  reason  for  it.  No,  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  killed  me,  quite  the  reverse ; 
still,  there's  never  been  a  day  that  I  haven't  felt  that 
keyhole.  What?  Why  don  1 1  have  a  doctor  f  What's 
the  use  of  a  doctor?  Why  should  I  put  you  to  the  ex- 
pense? Besides,  I  dare  say  you'll  do  very  well  without 
me.  Caudle ;  yes,  after  a  very  little  time  you  won't  miss 
me  much — no  man  ever  does. 

Peggy  tells  me  Miss  Prettyman  called  to-day.  Wliat 
of  itf  Nothing,  of  course.  Yes,  I  know  she  heard  I 
was  ill,  and  that's  why  she  came.  A  little  indecent,  I 
think,  Mr.  Caudle ;  she  might  wait ;  I  sha'n't  be  in  her 
way  long  ;  she  may  soon  have  the  key  of  the  caddy  now. 

Ha!  Mr.  Caudle,  what's  the  use  of  your  calling  me 
your  dearest  soul  now?  Well,  I  do, — I  believe  you.  I 
dare  say  you  do  mean  it ;  that  is,  I  hope  you  do.  Never- 
theless, you  can't  expect  I  can  be  quiet  in  this  bed,  and 
think  of  that  young  woman — not,  indeed,  that  she's  near 
so  young  as  she  gives  herself  out.  I  bear  no  malice 
towards  her.  Caudle,  not  the  least.  Still  I  don't  think 
I  could  lie  at  peace  in  my  grave  if — well,  I  won't  say 
anything  more  about  her,  but  yon 'know  what  I  mean. 

I  think  dear  mother  would  keep  house  beautifully  for 


NUMBER    SIX.  99 

you  when  I'm  gone.  Well,  love,  I  won't  talk  in  that 
way,  if  you  desire  it.  Still,  I  know  I've  a  dreadful  cold ; 
thoutrh  I  won't  allow  it  for  a  minute  to  be  the  shoes, 
certainly  not.  I  never  would  wear  'em  thick,  and  you 
know  it,  and  they  never  gave  me  a  cold  yet.  No,  deaz*- 
est  Caudle,  it's  ten  years  ago  that  did  it ;  not  that  I'll 
say  a  syllable  of  the  matter  to  hurt  you.     I'd  die  first. 

Motlier,  you  see,  knows  all  your  little  ways  ;  and  you 
wouldn't  get  another  wife  to  study  you  and  pet  you  up 
as  I've  done, — a  second  wife  never  does ;  it  isn't  likely 
she  should.  And  after  all,  we've  been  very  ha^^py.  It 
hasn't  been  my  fault,  if  we've  ever  had  a  word  or  two, 
for  you  couldn't  help  now  and  then  being  aggravating ; 
nobody  can  help  their  tempers  always,  especially  men. 
Still,  we've  been  very  happy,  haven't  we,  Caudle? 

Good-night.  Yes,  this  cold  does  tear  me  to  pieces ; 
but  for  all  that,  it  isn't  the  shoes.  God  bless  you,  Cau- 
dle ;  no,  it's  not  the  shoes.  I  won't  say  it's  the  keyhole ; 
but  again  I  say,  it's  not  the  shoes.  God  bless  you  once 
more ; — but  never  say  it's  the  shoes. 


SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  THERE? 

When  we  hear  the  music  ringing 

In  tlie  bright  celestial  dome, 
Wlien  sweet  angel  voices,  singing, 

Gladly  bid  us  welcome  home 
To  the  land  of  ancient  story, 

Where  the  spirit  knows  no  care,— 
In  that  land  of  light  and  glory, 

Shall  we  know  each  other  there? 

When  the  holy  angels  meet  us, 

As  we  go  to  join  their  band, 
Rhall  we  know  tJie  friends  that  greet  us 

In  that  glorious  spirit  land? 
tSliall  we  see  the  same  eyes  shining 

On  us  as  in  days  of  yon;? 
Sliall  we  feel  tlie  ilear  arins  twining 

Fondly  round  us  as  before  ? 


100  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Yes,  my  earth-worn  soul  rejoices, 

And  my  weary  heart  grows  light, 
For  the  thrilling  angel  voices 

And  the  angel  faces  bright, 
That  shall  welcome  us  in  heaven, 

Are  the  loved  of  long  ago ; 
And  to  them  'tis  kindly  given 

Thus  their  mortal  friends  to  know. 

Oh  ye  weary,  sad,  and  tossed  ones, 

Droop  not,  faint  not  by  the  way ! 
Ye  shall  join  the  loved  and  just  ones 

In  that  land  of  perfect  day. 
Harp-strings,  touched  by  angel  fingers, 

Murmured  in  my  raptured  ear ; 
Evermore  their  sweet  song  lingers — 

"We  shall  know  each  other  there." 


LIFE  FEOM  DEATH.— HoRATus  Bonab. 

The  star  is  not  extinguished  when  it  sets 

Upon  the  dull  horizon  ;  it  but  goes 
To  shine  in  other  skies,  then  reappear 

In  ours,  as  fresh  as  when  it  first  arose. 

The  river  is  not  lost  when  o'er  the  rock, 
It  pours  its  flood  into  the  abyss  below ; 

Its  scattered  force  re-gathering  from  tlie  shock. 
It  hastens  onward  with  yet  fuller  flow. 

The  bright  sun  dies  not  when  the  shading,  orb 
Of  the  eclipsing  moon  obscures  its  ray ; 

It  still  is  shining  on  ;  and  soon  to  us 

Will  burst  undimmed  into  the  joy  of  day. 

The  lily  dies  not  when  both  flower  and  leaf 

Fade,  and  are  strewed  upon  the  chiil,  sad  ground ; 

Gone  down  for  shelter  to  its  mother-earth, 
'Twill  rise,  re-bloom,  and  shed  its  fragrance  round. 

The  dew-drop  dies  not  when  it  leaves  the  flower 
And  passes  upward  on  the  beam  of  morn ; 

It  does  but  hide  itself  in  light  on  high. 
To  its  loved  flower,  at  twilight,  to  return. 

The  fine  gold  has  not  perished  when  the  flame 
Seizes  upon  it  with  consuming  glow ; 


NUMBER    SIX.  101 

In  freshened  splendor  it  comes  forth  anew, 
To  sparkle  on  the  monarch's  throne  or  brow. 

Thus  nothing  dies,  or  only  dies  to  live : 

Star,  stream,  sun,  flower,  the  dew-drop,  and  the  gold,— 
Each  goodly  thing,  instinct  with  buoyant  hope, 

Hastes  to  put  on  its  purer,  finer  mold. 

Thus  in  the  quiet  joy  of  kindly  trust, 

We  bid  each  parting  saint  a  brief  farewell ; 

Weeping,  yet  smiling,  we  commit  their  dust 
To  the  safe  keeping  of  the  silent  cell. 

Softly  within  that  peaceful  resting-place 

We  lay  tiieir  wearied  limbs,  and  bid  the  clay 

Press  lightly  on  them  till  tlie  night  be  past, 
And  the  far  east  give  note  of  coming  day, 

The  day  of  reappearing !  how  it  speeds ! 

He  who  is  true  and  faithful  speaks  the  word, 
Then  shall  we  ever  be  with  those  we  love — 

Then  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord. 

The  shout  is  heard  ;  the  archangel's  voice  goes  forth ; 

The  trumpet  sounds  ;  the  dead  awake  and  sing ; 
The  living  put  on  glory ;  one  glad  band, 

They  hasten  up  to  meet  their  coming  King. 

Short  death  and  darkness!  Endless  life  and  light! 

Short  dimming ;  endless  shining  in  yo]i  sphere. 
Where  all  is  incorruptible  and  pure, — 

The  joy  without  the  pain,  the  smile  without  the  tear. 


AMERICA. — Charles  Phillips. 

Search  creation  round,  where  can  you  find  a  country 
that  presents  so  sublime  a  view,  so  interesting  an  antici- 
pation? Wliat  noble  institutions!  What  a  comprehen- 
sive policy!  What  a  wise  equalization  of  every  politi- 
cal advantage?  The  cppresistd  of  all  countries,  the 
martyrs  of  every  creed,  the  innocent  victim  of  despotic 
arrogance  or  superstitious  frenzy,  may  there  find  refuge, — 
his  industry  encouraged,  his  piety  respected,  his  ambition 
animated  :  with  no  restraint  but  those  laws  wluch  are 


102  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

the  same  to  all,  and  no  distinction  but  that  which  his 
merit  may  originate.  Who  can  deny  that  the  existence 
of  such  a  country  presents  a  subject  for  human  congrat- 
ulation !  Who  can  deny  that  its  gigantic  advancement 
offers  a  field  for  the  most  rational  conjecture !  At  the 
end  of  the  very  next  century,  if  she  proceeds  as  she 
seems  to  promise,  what  a  wondrous  spectacle  may  she 
not  exhibit !  Who  shall  say  for  what  purpose  mysteri- 
ous Providence  may  not  have  designed  her !  Who  shall 
say  that  when  in  its  follies  or  its  crimes,  the  old  world 
may  have  buried  all  the  pride  of  its  power,  and  all  the 
pomp  of  its  civilization,  human  nature  may  not  find  its 
destined  renovation  in  the  new !  When  its  temples  and 
its  trophies  shall  have  mouldered  into  dust,  when  the 
glories  of  its  name  shall  be  but  the  legend  of  tradition, 
and  the  light  of  its  achievements  live  only  in  song,  phi- 
losophy will  revive  again  in  the  sky  of  her  Franklin, 
and  glory  rekindle  at  the  urn  of  her  Washington. 

Is  this  the  vision  of  romantic  fancy  ?  Is  it  even  im- 
probable ?  Is  it  half  so  improbable  as  the  events,  which, 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  have  rolled  like  successive 
tides  over  the  surface  of  the  European  world,  each  eras- 
ing the  impressions  that  preceded  it?  Many,  I  know, 
there  are,  who  will  consider  this  supposition  as  wild  and 
whimsical,  but  they  have  dwelt  with  little  reflection  upon 
the  records  of  the  past.  They  have  but  ill  observed  the 
progress  of  national  rise  and  national  ruin.  They  form 
their  judgment  on  the  deceitful  stability  of  the  present 
hour,  never  considering  the  innumerable  monarchies 
and  republics,  in  former  days  apparently  as  permanent, 
their  very  existence  become  now  the  subject  of  specula- 
tion— I  had  almost  said  of  scepticism.  I  appeal  to  history ! 
Tell  me,  thou  reverend  chronicler  of  the  grave,  can  all 
the  illusions  of  ambition  realized,  can  all  the  wealth  of  a 
universal  commerce,  can  all  the  achievements  of  success- 
ful heroism,  or  all  the  establishments  of  this  world's  wis- 
dom, secure  to  empire  the  permanency  of  its  possessions? 


NUMBER    SIX.  193 

Alas,  Troy  th  ought  so  once  ;  yet  the  land  of  Priam  lives 
only  in  song !  Thebes  thought  so  once  ;  yet  her  hun- 
dred gates  have  crumbled,  and  her  very  tombs  are  but 
as  the  dust  they  were  vainly  intended  to  commemorate  ! 
So  thought  Palmyra — where  is  she  !  So  thought  Persep- 
olis,  and  now — 

"  YT)n  wjiste,  where  roaming  lions  howl, 

Yon  aisle,  where  moans  the  groy-eyeil  owl, 

Shows  Uie  proud  Persian's  great  abode, 

Where  sceptred  once,  an  eartlily  god, 

His  power-clad  arm  controlled  each  haiipier  clime. 

Where  sports  the  warbling  muse,  and  fancy  soars  sublime." 

So  thought  the  countries  of  Demosthenes  and  the  Spar- 
tan ;  yet  Leonidas  is  trampled  by  the  timid  slave,  and 
Athens  insulted  by  the  servile,  mindless  and  enervate 
Ottoman !  In  his  hurried  march.  Time  has  but  looked 
at  their  imagined  immortality,  yet  the  days  of  their  glory 
are  as  if  they  had  never  been  ;  and  the  island  that  was 
then  a  speck,  rude  and  neglected,  in  the  barren  ocean, 
now  rivals  the  ubiquity  of  their  commerce,  the  glory  of 
their  arms,  the  fame  of  their  philosophy,  the  eloquence 
of  their  senate,  and  the  inspiration  of  their  bards !  Who 
shall  say,  then,  contemplating  the  past,  that  England, 
proud  and  potent  as  she  appears,  may  not  one  day  be 
what  Athens  is,  and  the  young  America  yet  soar  to  be 
what  Athens  was !  Who  shall  say,  when  the  European 
column  shall  have  mouldered,  and  the  night  of  barbar- 
ism  obscured  its  very  ruins,  that  that  mighty  continent 
may  not  emerge  from  the  horizon,  to  rule,  for  its  time, 
sovereign  of  the  ascendant. 

Such,  sir,  is  the  natural  progress  of  human  operations 
and  such  the  unsubstantial  mockery  of  human  pride. 


PADDY'S"  EXCELSIOR. 


'Twa.s  prowing  dark  so  terrible  fasht, 

AVhiii  thron^rh  a  town  uji  tlie  mountain  there  pashed 

A  brolh  of  a  boy,  to  his  nock  in  the  shnow; 


i04  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

As  he  walked,  his  shillalah  he  swung  to  and  fro, 
Saying :  "  It's  up  till  the  top  I'm  bound  for  to  go, 
Bejabers!" 

He  looked  mortial  sad,  and  his  eye  was  as  bright 
As  a  fire  of  turf  on  a  cowld  winther  night. 
And  niver  a  word  that  he  said  could  ye  tell 
As  he  opened  his  mouth  and  let  out  a  yell, 
"  It's  up  till  the  top  of  the  mountain  I'll  go, 
Onless  covered  up  wid  this  bothersome  shnow, 
Be  jabers !" 

Through  the  windows  he  saw,  as  he  thraveled  along, 
The  light  of  the  candles  and  fires  so  warm , 
But  a  big  chunk  of  ice  hung  over  his  head. 
Wid  a  shnivel  and  groan,  "By  St.  Patrick  !"  he  said, 
"It's  up  till  the  very  tip-top  I  will  rush. 
And  then  if  it  falls,  it's  not  meself  it'll  crush, 
Be  jabers !" 

"  Whisht  a  bit,"  said  an  owld  man,  whose  head  was  as  white 
As  the  shnow  that  fell  down  on  that  miserable  night ; 
"  Shure,  ye'll  fall  in  the  wather,  me  bit  of  a  lad, 
For  the  night  is  so  dark  and  the  walkin'  is  bad." 
But  shure,  he'd  not  lisht  to  a  word  that  was  said, 
For  he'd  go  till  the  top,  if  he  wint  on  his  head. 
Be  jabers ! 

A  bright,  buxom  young  girl,  such  as  like  to  be  kissed. 
Axed  him  wadn't  he  shtop,  and  how  could  he  resist? 
So,  snapping  his  fingers  and  winking  his  eye. 
While  shmiling  upon  her,  he  made  this  reply — 
"  Faith,  I  meant  to  kape  on  till  I  got  to  the  top. 
But,  as  yer  shwate  self  has  axed  me,  I  may  as  well  shtop. 
Be  jabers !" 

He  shtopped  all  night  and  he  shtopped  all  day. 
And  ye  musn't  be  axing  whin  he  did  go  away ; 
For  wadn't  he  be  a  bastely  gossoon 
To  be  lavin'  his  darlint  in  the  shwate  honey-moon  ? 
Whin  the  owld  man  has  i^raties  enough,  and  to  spare, 
Shure  he  moight  as  well  shtay  if  he's  comfortable  there. 
Be  jabers ! 

— Harper's  Magazine. 


NUMBER    SIX.  105 


HYMX  TO  THE  FLOWERS.-Hoeace  Smith. 

Day-stars !  that  ope  your  ej'es  at  morn  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation ; 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lovely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation ; . 

Ye  matin  worshippers !  who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Pour  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ; 

Ye  bright  mosaics !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tesseiate — 
What  numerous  lessons  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create ! 

'Neath  cloistered  bough  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 

And  tolls  its  parfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  those  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn, 
Which  God  hath  planned ; 

To  that  cathedral  boundless  as  our  wonder, 

AVhose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supjily; 
Its  choir,  the  wind  and  waves  ;  its  organ,  thunder ; 
Its  dome,  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  lone  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God. 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers,  though  made  for  pleasure, 

Blooming  o'er  hill  and  dale,  by  day  and  night; 
On  every  side  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  deliglit! 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers!  are  living  preachers; 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book ; 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  nuriierous  teachers, 
In  loneliest  nook. 

6» 


106  ONE    HUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Floral  apostles,  that  with  dewy  splendor 

Blush  without  sin,  and  weep  without  a  crime ; 
Oh !  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  divine ! 

"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilips  cry,  "in  robes  like  ours; 
How  vain  your  glory — Oh !  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers !" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist, 

With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Posthumous  glories,  angel-like  collection, 

Upraised  from  seed  and  bulb  interred  in  earth ; 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth ! 

Ephemeral  sages !  what  instructors  hoary 

To  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  inori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Were  I,  O  God !  in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  the  voice  of  teachei's  and  divines, 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 


ONE  GLASS  MORE. 

Stay,  mortal,  stay  ;  nor  heedless  thus 

Thy  sure  destruction  seal ; 
Within  that  cup  there  lurks  a  curse, 

AVhich  all  who  drink  shall  feel : 
Disease  and  death,  forever  nigh, 

Stand  ready  at  the  door. 
And  eager  wait  to  hear  the  cry 

Of  "  Give  me  one  glass  more." 

Go,  view  that  prison's  gloomy  cells, 

Their  pallid  tenants  scan  ; 
Gaze,  gaze  upon  these  earthly  hells. 

And  ask  whence  they  began; 
Had  these  a  tongue,  O  man !  thy  cheek 

The  answer'd  crimson  o'er ; 


NUMBEK    SIX.  10.7 

Had  these  a  tongue  they'd  to  thee  speak, 
And  cry  the  "  One  glass  more." 

Behold  that  wretched  female  form, 

An  outcast  from  her  home, 
Bleached  in  affliction's  blighting  storm, 

And  doomed  in  want  to  roam  ; 
Behold  her— ask  that  prattler  near. 

Why  mother  is  so  poor ; 
He'll  whisper  in  thy  startled  ear, 

"'Twas  father's  one  glass  more." 

Staj^,  mortal,  stay  ;  repent,  return. 

Reflect  upon  thy  fate ; 
The  poisonous  draught  indignant  spurn, — 

Spurn,  spurn  it  ere  too  late ! 
Oh,  fly  the  alehouse's  horrid  din, 

i^or  linger  at  the  door, 
Lest  thou,  perchance,  should  sip  again 

The  treacherous  '"  One  glass  more." 


JAFFAR.— Leigh  Hunt. 


Jai?ar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier, 

The  poor  man's  hope,  the  friend  without  a  peer, 

Jaffar  was  dead,  slain  by  a  doom  unjust ; 

And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistrust 

Of  what  the  good,  and  e'en  the  bad,  might  say. 

Ordained  that  no  man  living,  from  that  day, 

Should  dare  to  speak  his  name  on  pain  of  death. 

All  Araby  and  Persia  held  their  breath  ; 

All  but  the  brave  !\Iondeer  ;  he,  proud  to  show 
How  far  for  love  a  grateful  soul  could  go. 
And  facing  death  for  very  scoi-n  and  grief 
(For  his  great  lieart  wanted  a  great  relief), 
Stood  forth  in  Bag<lad,  daily,  in  the  square 
AVhere  once  had  stood  a  hapjiy  house,  and  there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scyiuitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jall'ar. 

"  Bring  me  this  man,"  the  caliph  cried.     The  man 
Was  brought,  was  gazed  upon.    The  mutes  began 
To  bind  his  arms.     "  Welcome,  Tirave  cords,"  cried  he^ 
"From  bonds  far  worse  Jallkr  delivered  me; 


108  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

From  wants,  from  shames,  from  loveless  household  fears, 
Made  a  man's  eyes  friends  with  delicious  tears, 
Restored  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a  par 
With  his  great  self.     How  can  1  pay  Jaffar?" 

Haroun,  who  felt  that  on  a  soul  like  this 
The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 
Now  deigned  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of  fate 
Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great. 
He  said,  "  Let  worth  grow  frenzied  if  it  will ; 
The  caliph's  judgment  shall  be  master  still. 
Go,  and  since  gifts  so  move  thee,  take  this  gem. 
The  richest  in  the  Tartar's  diadem, 
And  hold  the  giver  as  thou  deemest  fit !" 

"  Gifts !"  cried  the  friend.  He  took ;  and  holding  it 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet  his  star, 
Exclaimed,  "  This,  too,  I  owe  to  thee,  Jaffar !" 


THE   DIFFICULTY  ABOUT  THAT  DOG. 

This  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble : — 

Lost. — On  tho  10th  instant,  a  small  terrier  dog,  with  a  brass  collar  npon  his 
neck,  and  the  tiii  of  his  tail  gone.  Answers  to  the  name  of  "Jack."  Fivo  dol- 
lars leward  will  be  given  to  the  person  who  returns  him  to  John  yuill,  No.  84 
Kickety  Row. 

I  inserted  the  above  in  the  Daily  Flipflap,  in  the  hope 
that  I  might  recover  the  animal,  to  which  I  was  much 
attached.  The  Flipflap  goes  to  press  at  five  A.  m.  At 
half  past  six  I  was  awakened  by  a  pull  at  my  door-bell. 
I  got  up  and  opened  the  window.  As  I  looked  out  I 
saw  a  man  standing  in  my  front  yard  with  a  mongrel 
dog  tied  to  a  rope.     He  gazed  up  and  observed : — 

"  Hello  !     Are  you  the  fellow  who  lost  a  dorg  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  Well,  then  I've  fetched  him,"  said  the  man. 

I  then  explained  to  this  wretched  human  being  that 
my  dog  was  a  terrier,  while  his  looked  more  like  a  log  of 
wood  with  half  the  bark  off,  and  propped  up  on  four 
sticks,  than  a  dog  of  any  kind. 

"  Well,  ain't  you  a-going  to  take  him  ?" 


NUMBER    SIX.  109 

"  I  wouldn't  have  him  as  a  gift.  And  I  want  you  to 
move  off  now,  or  I'll  call  the  police." 

"  Xow,  I  guess  you  think  you're  smart,  don't  you  ? 
I'd  bust  you  over  the  jaw  for  five  cents,  I  would.  You 
don't  know  a  good  dorg  when  you  see  him,  you  don't," 
and  he  went  out,  after  ripping  the  palings  off  the  fence. 

In  about  a  half-hour  there  was  another  ring  at  the 
bell.  I  went  down.  There  was  a  man  with  six  dogs,  of 
a  variety  of  breeds. 

"  Wh-wh-which  of  'em's  him,  b-b-boss,"  said  this  fellow, 
for  he  stuttered  as  if  he  would  strangle  on  a  small  syllable. 

"  Neither  of  them." 

"  Y-you  said  his  u-na-name  was  J- Jack,  d-didn't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"  W-well  then,  wh-wh-what  d'ye  call  th-that  ?"  says 
he,  as  he  sung  out  "Jack,"  and  the  whole  six  dogs  looked 
up  and  wagged  their  tails  like  a  lot  of  spavined  oxen  in 
fly  time. 

"  Why,  I  call  it  confounded  nonsense  to  expect  me  to 
take  the  whole  six  dogs  because  they're  named  Jack. 
I  don't  want  to  start  a  sausage  mill,  you  understand. 
Mince-meat  isn't  in  my  line." 

"W-w-w-well,  ain't  you  going  to  take  him?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  do  you  suppose  I  am  a  gibbering 
idiot?" 

"  W-w-w-well,  you  sh-sha'n't  have  him  now  if  you  want 
him.  I  w-w-wouldn't  trust  a  decent  d-d-dog  with  a  m- 
m-man  like  you,  anyway."  And  the  six  canines  fell 
into  line,  and  trotted  down  the  street  after  him. 

I  had  not  got  fairly  into  the  house  before  there  was 
another  ring.  Seedy-looking  man  wath  a  semi-decayed 
yellow  dog.  His  ribs  stuck  out  so,  that  he  looked  as  if 
he  had  gorged  himself  with  a  spiral  spring. 

"You  advertise  for  a  dog,  I  believe.  Well,  I  caught 
liim  around  here  in  the  alley,  after  a  desperate  struggle. 
Fine  dog,  sir." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  he  is.     IIo  looks  to  me  as  if  he 


no  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

wasn't  well.  He  is  too  ethereal  for  this  world,  young 
man,  depend  upon  it." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  Only  shedding  his  coat,  sir  ;  all  good 
dogs  do  at  this  time  of  the  year.  See  that,  sir,"  said  this 
seedy  Caucasian,  holding  the  dog  by  the  cut!'  of  the  neck. 
"See  how  he  yelps ;  that's  a  sign  of  pluck  ;  that  dog  would 
fight  a  million  wild-cats,  he  would,  and  lick  'em  too,  sir." 

"  Get  out !"  I  exclaimed  ;  and  the  dog  put  his  tail  be- 
tween his  legs  and  ran  for  the  gate. 

"See  that,  sir?  see  that?"  said  the  man,  as  he  seized 
him,  "  that's  a  sign  he's  well  trained ;  no  raw  dog  be- 
haves like  that,  I  want  you  to  know.  Now  s'pose  you 
fork  over  that  five." 

"  Not  much  ;  I  don't  want  him,  my  friend." 

"You  won't  do  it?  Well,  then  take  him  for  seventy- 
five  cents,  and  say  no  more  about  it.  He's  a  valuable 
animal.     You'll  never  get  another  such  a  chance." 

"  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  him." 

"  Well,  don't  then,"  said  the  man,  as  he  kicked  the  ani- 
mal over  on  my  flower-pots  and  broke  three  of  them,  while 
the  brute  dashed  madly  down  the  middle  of  the  street. 

Just  then  a  big  ruffian  in  a  slouched  hat  came  up  with 
a  bull-dog,  sprung  in  the  knees,  and  lamenting  the  entire 
loss  of  his  tail.  When  the  ruffian  spoke  to  him  he  wagged 
the  whole  of  the  last  half  of  him. 

"  I've  brought,  that  there  dog,"  was  the  observation 
made  by  the  ruffian,  "  and  I'll  finger  them  there  stamps,  I 
reckon." 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  that  is  not  my  dog." 

"  Yes,  it  is,  though." 

"  But  it  is  not." 

"  Don't  I  tell  you  it  is  ?  Didn't  you  say  the  tip  of  his 
tail  was  gone  ?     Well,  just  look  at  him,  will  you  ?" 

"  Well,  I  won't  have  him,  anyhow." 

"  You  want  to  cheat  rae,  do  you  ?  I'll  fix  you.  S-sick 
him,  Bull !"  said  this  outrageous  ruffian,  as  the  dog  flew 
at  me,  giving  me  barely  time  to  get  inside  and  shut  the 


KUMBER    SIX.  Ill 

door  on  his  frontispiece.  I  guess  I  squeezed  the  nose 
off  of  that  dog.  But  the  man  cursed  me  about  five  min- 
utes, then  flung  a  brick  at  the  door  and  went  away. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  another  ring.  Small  pock- 
marked man  in  a  red  shirt  this  time,  with  a  speckled 
dog  that  looked  as  if  he  had  been  out  without  an  um- 
brella when  it  was  raining  ink.  Says  this  victim  of  the 
small-pox : — 

"  You  know  that  dog  you  advertised  for.  Well,  here 
lie  is." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !"  said  I,  "  you  know  that  isn't  my  dog." 

"  Your  name's  Quill,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  It  is,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  then,  this  here  is  the  dog.  He's  the  best  rat- 
ter you  ever  seen.  Sling  them  around  like  he  was  amusin' 
hisself,  he  does,  and " 

"  But  he  is  not  my  dog." 

"And  he's  a  bully  watch-dog.  Look  at  him  !  Look 
at  him  now, — he's  watching  now  !  Why,  he'll  sit  there 
and  watch  and  watch,  until  he  goes  stone  blind,  he  will. 
He'll  Avatch  all  night  if  you  only  let  him.  You  never 
see  a  watcher  like  hinu  I'll  jest  chain  him  up  while  you 
go  in  and  get  the  V." 

"  No,  you  needn't,"  said  I.  I'll  blow  his  brains  out 
if  you  don't  take  him  away." 

"  Well,  say,  stranger,  I'm  a  little  strapped  to-day ; 
jest  lend  me  five  on  him  till  morning,  will  you  ?  I'll  pay 
you  to-morrow." 

"  See  here,  now,  you  just  get  out  of  here,  or  I'll  take 
the  hide  off  of  you,"  I  said,  for  I  began  to  get  excited, 
you  know. 

"Aw  !  you  ain't  worth  a  cent,  you  actually  ain't,"  said 
the  pock-marked  man,  as  he  walked  off,  after  clii)ping 
the  dog  over  the  head  with  one  of  my  fence-palings,  and 
then  putting  his  fingers  up  to  his  nose. 

Not  a  minute  after,  up  comes  a  man  with  a  mastiff  as 
big  as  a  small  horse. 


112  ONE    IIUNDaED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Say,  boss,  I  want  that  five,"  was  all  he  remarked  by 
way  of  iutroducing  the  subject. 

•■'  Well,  you  cau't  get  it ;  and  if  you  don't  leave  I'll 
call  the  police,"  I  exclaimed  in  despair. 

"  Watch  him,  Zip  !"  said  the  man,  instantly  ;  and  the 
dog  flew  at  me,  threw  me  down,  and  bit  a  slice  of  muscle 
out  of  my  leg  and  disfigured  my  nose  for  life.  Then  the 
assassin  who  owned  him  called  him  oif  and  went  away 
laughing. 

I  didn't  answer  any  more  rings  that  day,  but  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  looked  out  of  the  second- 
story  window,  and  the  yard  was  full  of  men  with  all 
kinds  of  dogs, — black  dogs,  white  dogs,  yellow  dogs,  va- 
riegated dogs,  flea-bitten  dogs,  dogs  with  tails,  dogs  with- 
out tails,  rat-terriers,  bull-pups,  poodles,  fox-hounds, 
spaniels,  Newfoundlands,  mixed  breeds,  pointers,  setters, 
and  a  multitude  of  other  varieties, — all  growling,  yelping, 
barking,  snapping,  and  jumping  about  until  there  wasn't 
a  flower-pot  left  in  the  place,  and  the  noise  was  worse 
than  a  menagerie  at  meal-time. 

I  haven't  got  my  dog  yet.  I  don't  want  him  either. 
I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  another  dog  between  this  and 
the  silent  grave.  I  only  wish  that  all  the  dogs  from 
here  to  Alaska  were  collected  into  a  convention,  and  had 
hold  of  that  man  with  the  mastiff,  that  they  might  gnaw 
on  him  until  he  hadn't  a  morsel  of  meat  left  on  his  skel- 
eton.    That  is  all  I  want'  in  the  dog  line  in  this  world. 


NEW  VERSION  OF  "A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT." 
Chaelks  Mackay. 

"A  man's  a  man,"  says  Robert  Burns, 

"For  a'  that  and  a'  that:" 
But  though  the  song  be  clear  and  strong. 

It  larks  a  note  for  a'  that. 
Tlie  lout  who'd  shirk  his  daily  work, 

Yet  claim  lii;j  pay  and  a'  that, 


NUMBER    SIX.  113 

Or  beg  ■when  he  mijrht  earn  his  bread, 
Is  not  a  man  for  a'  that. 

If  all  who  dine  on  homely  fare 

Were  true  and  brave,  and  a'  that, 
And  none  whose  garb  is  "  hodden  gray" 

Was  fool  and  knave  and  a'  that, 
The  vice  and  crime  that  shame  our  time 

Would  fode  and  fall  and  a'  that, 
And  ploughmen  be  as  good  as  kings, 

And  churls  as  earls  for  a'  that. 

You  see  yon  brawny,  blustering  sot, 

Who  swaggers,  swears,  and  a'  that. 
And  thinks  because  his  strong  right  arm 

Might  fell  an  ox  and  a'  that, 
That  he's  as  noble,  man  for  man, 

As  duke  or  lord  and  a'  that ; 
He's  but  a  brute  beyond  dispute, 

And  not  a  vian  for  a'  that. 

A  man  may  own  a  large  estate, 

Have  palace,  park  and  a'  that,  _ 
And  not  for  birth,  but  honest  worth. 

Be  thrice  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
And  Donald  herding  on  the  muir, 

Who  beats  his  wife  and  a'  that. 
Be  nothing  but  a  rascal  boor, 

jSTor  half  a  man  for  a'  that. 

It  comes  to  this,  dear  Eobert  Burns, — 

The  truth  is  old  and  a'  that, — 
"The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp. 

The  man's  the  g:il<l  for  a'  that," 
And  though  you'tl  put  the  minted  mark 

On  copper,  brass  and  a'  that, 
The  lie  is  gross,  the  cheat  is  plain, 

And  will  not  pass  for  a'  that ; 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

'Tis  soul  and  licart  and  a'  that 
That  makes  the  king  a  gentleman. 

And  not  his  croim  and  a'  that ; 
And  man  with  man,  if  rich  or  poor, 

The  best  is  he  for  a'  that 
Who  stands  erect,  in  self-respect, 

And  acts  the  man  for  a'  that. 


114  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


IF  WE  HAD  BUT  KNOWN. 

If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known, 

Those  summer  days  together, 
That  one  would  stand  next  year  alone, 

In  the  blazing  July  weather  ! 
We  trifled  away  the  golden  hours. 

With  gladness,  and  beauty,  and  calm, 
Watching  the  glory  of  blossoming  flowers, 

Breathing  the  warm  air's  balm ; 
Seeing  the  children  like  sunbeams  play 

In  the  glades  of  the  long,  cool  wood ; 
Hearing  the  wild  bird's  carol  gay, 

And  the  song  of  the  murmuring  flood, — 
Rich  gems  to  Time's  pitiless  river  thrown, — 
If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known  I 

If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known, 

Those  winter  nights  together, 
How  one  would  sit  by  the  hearth  alone. 

In  the  next  December  weather : 
We  sped  those  last  hours,  each  for  each, 

With  music,  and  games,  and  talk, — 
The  careless,  bright,  delicious  speech, 

With  no  doubt  or  fear  to  balk, 
Touching  on  all  things,  grave  and  gay, 

With  the  freedom  of  two  in  one. 
Yet  leaving,  as  happy  people  may. 

So  much  unsaid,  undone. 
Ah !  priceless  hours,  forever  flown, — 
If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known ! 

If  we  had  but  known,  if  wie  had  but  known. 

While  yet  we  stood  together. 
How  a  thoughtless  look,  a  slighting  touch 

Would  sting  and  jar  forever  ! 
Cold  lies  the  turf  for  the  burning  kiss, 

The  cross  stands  deaf  to  cries, 
Dull,  as  the  wall  of  silence  is. 

Are  the  gray  unanswering  skies ! 
We  can  never  unsay  a  thing  we  said, 

While  the  weary  life  drags  past, 
We  can  never  staunch  the  wound  that  bled, 

Where  a  chance  stroke  struck  it  last. 


NUMBER    SIX.  115 

Oh !  the  patient  love  'neath  the  heavy  stone, — 
If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known ! 

If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known ! 

We  had  dimbed  the  hill  together, 
The  path  before  us  seemed  all  our  own, 

And  the  glorious  autumn  weather. 
"We  had  sown,  the  harvest  was  there  to  reap  ; 

We  bad  worked  ;  lo !  the  wages  ready. 
Who  was  to  guess  tbat  the  long,  last  sleep 

Was  closing  around  one  already  ? 
With  never  a  warning,  sharp  and  strong, 

Came  the  bitter  wrench  of  doom. 
And  love,  and  sorrow,  and  yearning,  long 

May  wail  by  the  lonely  tomb. 
Oh  !  keenest  of  pangs,  and  the  mourner's  moan, — 
If  we  had  but  known,  if  we  had  but  known ! 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH.— Charles  Dickens. 

The  followinir  thrillins;  description  is  an  extract  from  one  of  the  series  of 
"Sketches  liy  IJo/..''  Tlie  ilriinliiini  has  lived  to  .see  his  whole  faiiiily  liecoiue  in- 
volved in  his  ruin,  his  wife  ami  ilaughter  go  down  to  iirenuiture  graves,  sniittrn 
by  the  hand  of  disease,  and  his  two  suns  meet  violent  deaths;  and  now,  homeless 
and  desiiairing,  he  seeks  the  doom  whicli  the  anthiu'  has  so  grajihically  por- 
trayed.    The  entire-sketch  makes  a  very  effective  temperance  reading. 

At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  the  door- 
step, faint  and  ill.  The  premature  decay  of  vice  and 
prtjfligaey  had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His  cheeks  were 
hollow  and  livid  ;  his  eyes  were  sunken,  and  their  sight 
was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath  his  weight,  and  a 
cold  shiver  ran  tlirough  every  limb. 

And  now  the  long  forgotten  scenes  of  a  mi.sspent  life 
crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought  of  the 
time  when  he  had  a  hom(> — a  happy,  cheerful  home — 
and  oftho.se  who  people<l  it,  and  (locked  about  him  then, 
until  the  forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed  to  rise  from 
the  grave,  and  stand  about  him — so  plain,  so  clear,  and 
BO  distinct  they  were,  that  he  could  touch  and  feel  them. 
Looks  that  he  had  long  forgotten  were  fixed  upon  him 
once  more;  voic(;s  long  since  husliod  in  death  sounded 
in  his  ears  like  the  music  of  village  bells.     IJut  it  was 


Ill)  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  beat  heavily  upon  him ;  and 
cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his  heart  again.     He 
rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  few  paces  further. 
The  street  was  silent  and  empty ;  the  few  passengers  who 
passed  by,  at  that  late  hour,  hurried  quickly  on,  and  his 
tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  the  violence  of  the  storm. 
Again  that  heavy  chill  struck  through  his  frame,  and 
his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate  beneath  it.      He  coiled 
himself  up  in  a  projecting  doorway,  and  tried  to  sleep. 
But  sleep  had   fled   from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes. 
His  mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he  was  awake  and 
conscious.     The   well-known   shout   of  drunken  .  mirth 
sounded  in  his  ear,  the  glass  was  at  his  lips,  the  board 
was  covered  with  choice,  rich  food  ;  they  were  before  him ; 
he  could  see  them  all,  he  had  but  to  reach  out  his  hand 
and  take  them — and,  though  the  illusion  was  reality 
itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting  alone  in  the  deserted 
street,  watching  the  rain-drops  as  they  pattered  on  the 
stones;    that  death  was  coming  upon   him   by   inches, 
and  that  there  were  none  to  care  fur  or  help  him.     Sud- 
denly he  started  up  in  the  extremity  of  terror.     He  had 
heard  his  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night  air,  he  knew 
not  what  or  why.     Hark  !     A  groan  ! — another  !     His 
senses  were  leaving  him  ;    half-formed  and  incoherent 
words  burst  from  his  lips;  and  his  hands  sought  to  tear 
and  lacerate  his  flesh.    He  was  going  mad,  and  he  shrieked 
for  help  till  his  voice  failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  the  long  dismal 
street.  He  recollected  that  outcasts  like  himself,  con- 
demned to  wander  day  and  night  in  those  dreadful  streets, 
had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with  their  own  loneliness. 
He  remembered  to  have  heard  many  years  before  that 
a  homeless  wretch  had  once  been  found  in  a  solitary  cor- 
ner sharpening  a  rusty  knife  to  plunge  into  his  own  heart, 
preferring  death  to  that  endless,  weary  wandering  to  and 
fro.  In  an  instant  his  resolve  was  taken,  his  limbs  re- 
;■  ceived  new  life  :;  he  ran  quickly  from  the  spot,  and  paused 


NUMBER    SIX.  117 

not  for  breath  until  he  reached  the  river  side.  He  crept 
softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that  led  from  the  com- 
mencement of  Waterloo  Bridge,  down  to  the  water's  level. 
He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and  held  his  breath,  as  the 
patrol  passed.  Never  did  prisoner's  heart  throb  with  the 
hope  of  liberty  and  life,  half  so  eagerly  as  did  that  of  the 
wretched  man  at  the  prospect  of  death.  The  w^atch  passed 
close  to  him,  but  he  remained  unobserved;  and  after 
waiting  till  the  sound  of  footsteps  had  died  aysay  in  the 
distance,  he  cautiously  descended,  and  stood  beneath  the 
gloomy  arch  that  forms  the  landing-place  from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was, 
for  tlie  moment,  still  and  quiet, — so  quiet  that  the  slight- 
est sound  on  the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rippling  of  the 
water  against  the  barges  that  were  moored  there,  was 
distinctly  audible  to  his  ear.  The  stream  stole  languidly 
and  sluggishly  on.  Strange  and  fantastic  forms  rose  to 
the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to  approach ;  dark  gleam- 
ing eyes  peered  from  the  water,  and  seemed  to  mock  his 
hesitation,  while  hollow  murmurs  from  behind,  urged 
him  onward.  He  retreated  a  few  paces,  took  a  short 
run,  a  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the  water. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the  water's 
surface — l)ut  what  a  change  had  taken  place  in  that 
short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  !  Life — life 
in  any  form,  poverty,  misery,  starvation  —  anything 
but  death.  He  fought  and  struggled  with  the  water  that 
closed  over  his  head,  and  screamed  in  agonies  of  terror. 
The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang  in  his  ears.  The  shore — 
but  one  fjot  of  dry  ground — he  could  almost  touch  the 
step.  One  hand's  breath  nearer,  and  he  was  saved — 
but  the  tide  bore  him  onward,  under  the  dark  arches  of 
the  bridge,  and  he  sank  to  the  bottom.  Again  he  rose 
and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  instant — for  one  brief 
instant — the  buildings  on  the  river's  banks,  the  lights  on 
the  bridge  through  whidi   tho  current  had  borno  him, 


118  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

the  black  water,  and  the  fast-flying  clouds,  were  distinct- 
ly visible ;  once  more  he  sank,  and  once  again  he  rose. 
Bright  flames  of  tire  shot  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  and 
reeled  before  his  eyes,  while  the  water  thundered  in  his 
ears,  and  stunned  him  with  its  furious  roar. 

A  week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed  ashore,  some 
miles  down  the  river,  a  swollen  and  disfigured  mass. 
Unrecognized  and  unpitied,  it  was  borne  to  the  grave ; 
and  there  it  has  long  since  mouldered  away  1 


THE  GREEN  MOUIsTAIX  JUSTICE.-Rev.  Henry  Reeves. 

"  The  snow  is  deep,"  the  Justice  said ; 

''There's  mighty  mischief  overhead." 

"High  talk,  indeed !"  his  wife  exclaimed  ; 

"What,  sir!  shall  Providence  be  blamed?" 

The  Justice,  laughing,  said,  "  Oh  no  1 

I  only  meant  the  loads  of  snow 

Upon  the  roofs.     The  barn  is  weak ; 

I  greatly  fear  the  roof  will  break. 

So  hand  me  up  the  spade,  my  dear, 

I'll  mount  the  barn,  the  roof  to  clear." 

"No  !"  said  the  wife ;  "the  barn  is  high, 

And  if  you  slip,  and  fall,  and  die, 

How  will  my  living  be  secured  ?— 

Stephen,  your  life  is  not  insured. 

But  tic  a  rope  your  waist  around. 

And  it  will  hold  you  safe  and  sound." 

"I  will,"  said  he.    "Now  for  the  roof — 

All  snugly  tied,  and  danger-proof! 

Excelsior !  Excel — But  no ! 

The  rope  is  not  secured  below  !" 

Said  Rachel,  "  Climb,  the  end  to  throw 

Across  the  top,  and  I  will  go 

And  tie  that  end  around  my  waist." 

"  Well,  every  woman  to  her  taste ; 

You  always  would  be  tightly  laced. 

Rachel,  when  you  became  my  bride, 

I  thought  the  knot  securely  tied  ; 

But  lest  the  bond  should  break  in  twain, 

I'll  have  it  fastened  once  again." 


NUMBKRSIX.  ri9 

Below  the  arm-pits  tied  around, 
She  takes  her  station  on  the  ground, 
AVhile  on  the  roof,  beyond  the  ridge, 
He  shovels  clear  the  lower  edge. 
But,  sad  mischance !  the  loosened  snow 
Comes  sliding  down,  to  plunge  below. 
And  as  he  tumbles  with  the  slide. 
Up  Rachel  goes  on  t'other  side. 
Just  half-\yay  down  the  Justice  hung; 
Just  half-way  up  the  woman  swung. 
"Good  laud  o'  Goshen!"  shouted  she; 
"  Why,  do  you  see  it  ?"  answered  he. 

The  couple,  dangling  in  the  breeze. 

Like  ^urkeys  hung  outside  to  freeze. 

At  their  rope's  end  and  wits'  end,  too, 

Shout  back  and  forth  what  best  to  do. 

Cried  Stephen,  "  Take  it  coolly,  wife  ; 

All  have  their  ups  and  downs  in  life." 

Quoth  Rachel,  "  What  a  pity  'tis 

To  joke  at  such  a  time  as  this ! 

A  man  whose  wife  is  being  hung 

Should  know  enough  to  hold  his  tongue." 

"Now,  Rachel,  as  I  look  below, 

I  see  a  tempting  heap  of  snow. 

Suppose,  my  dear,  I  take  my  knife, 

And  cut  the  rope  to  save  my  life?" 

She  shouted,  "  Don't !  'twould  be  my  death — 

I  see  some  pointed  stones  beneath. 

A  better  way  would  be  to  call. 

With  all  our  might,  for  Pliebe  Hall." 

"  Agreed !"  he  roared.     First  he,  then  sho 

Gave  tongue ;  "  O  Phebe !  Phebe !  Fhe-e- 

be  Hall  I"  in  tones  both  fine  and  coarse, 

Enough  to  make  a  drover  hoarse. 

Now  Phebe,  over  at  the  farm. 
Was  sitting,  sewing,  snug  and  warm; 
But  hearing,  as  she  thought,  her  name, 
Si)rang  up,  and  to  the  rescue  came  ; 
Beheld  the  scene,  and  thus  she  thought: 
"  If  now  a  kitclien  cluiir  were  brouglit, 
And  I  cDiild  rcacli  tlie  lady's  foot, 
I'd  draw  lier  downward  by  the  boot, 
Then  cut  the  rojie,  and  let  him  go  ; 
He  (^nnot  uii.->.s  the  pile  of  snow." 
oo 


120  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

He  sees  her  moving  towards  his  wife, 
Armed  with  a  chair  and  carving-knife, 
And,"  ere  he  is  aware,  perceives 
His  head  ascending  to  the  eaves ; 
And,  guessing  what  the  two  are  at, 
Screams  from  beneath  the  roof,  "  Stop  that ! 
You  make  me  fall  too  far,  by  half !" 
But  Phebe  answers,  with  a  laugh, 
"  Please  tell  a  body  by  what  right 
You've  brought  your  wife  to  such  a  plight !" 
And  then,  with  well-directed  blows. 
She  cuts  the  rope  and  down  he  goes. 

The  wife  untied,  they  walk  around. 
When  lo  !  no  Stephen  can  be  found. 
They  call  in  vain,  run  to  and  fro  ; 
They  look  around,  above,  below  ; 
No  trace  or  token  can  they  see. 
And  deeper  grows  the  mystery. 
Then  Rachel's  heart  within  her  sank ; 
But,  glancing  at  the  snowy  bunk. 
She  caught  a  little  gleam  of  hope,— 
A  gentle  movement  of  the  rope. 
They  scrape  away  a  little  snow ; 
What's  this  ?  A  hat !  Ah  !  he's  below. 
Then  upward  heaves  the  snowy  pile, 
And  forth  he  stalks  in  tragic  style. 
Unhurt,  and  with  a  roguish  smile  ; 
And  Rachel  sees,  with  glad  surprise, 
The  missing  found,  the  fallen  rise. 


BILL  MASON'S  BRIDE.— Bret  Hartb. 

Half  an  hour  till  train  time,  sir, 
An'  a  fearful  dark  time,  too  ; 

Take  a  look  at  the  switch  lights,  Tom, 
Fetch  in  a  stick  when  you're  through. 

On  time?  well,  yes,  1  guess  so- 
Left  the  last  station  all  right ; 

She'll  come  round  the  curve  a-flyin' ; 
Bill  Mason  comes  up  to-night. 

You  know  Bill  ?    Nof  _  He's  engineer, 
Been  on  the  road  all  his  life — 


NUMBER    SIX.  IZJ 

I'll  never  forget  the  mornin' 

He  married  his  chuck  of  a  wife. 
'Twas  the  summer  the  mill  hands  struck, 

Just  oti'  work,  every  one ; 
They  kicked  up  a  row  in  the  village 

And  killed  old  Donevan's  son. 

Bill  hadn't  been  married  mor'n  an  hour, 

Up  comes  a  message  from  Kress, 
Orderin'  Bill  to  go  up  there, 

And  bring  down  the  night  express. 
He  left  his  gal  in  a  hurry, 

And  went  up  on  Number  One, 
Thinking  of  nothing  but  Mary, 

And  the  train  he  had  to  run. 

And  Mary  sat  down  by  the  window 

To  wait  for  the  night  express ; 
And,  sir,  if  she  hadn't  a'  done  so. 

She'd  been  a  widow,  I  guess. 
For  it  must  a'  been  nigh  midnight 

When  the  mill  hands  left  the  Ridge ; 
They  come  down — the  drunken  devils. 

Tore  up  a  rail  from  the  bridge. 
But  Mary  heard  'em  a-workin' 

And  guessed  there  Avas  somethin'  wrong — 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes. 

Bill's  train  it  would  be  along ! 

She  couldn't  come  here  to  tell  us, 

A  mile — it  wouldn't  a'  done  ; 
So  she  jest  grabbed  up  a  lantern. 

And  made  for  the  bridge  alone. 
Then  down  came  the  night  express,  sir, 

And  Bill  was  makin'  her  climb! 
But  ]Mary  hcM  tin;  lantern, 

A-swingin'  it  all  the  time. 

Well,  by  Jove  !  Bill  saw  the  signal. 

And  he  stoj>ped  the  night  express, 
Ami  he  ff^uiid  his  Mary  cry  in', 

On  the  truck,  in  lujr  weddiii'  dress; 
Cryin'  an'  laughin'  for  joy,  sir. 

An'  holdin'  (ju  to  tlic  light — 
Hello!  lierc's  tlic  train — good-ljye,  sir, 

Bill  Mason's  on  time  to-night. 


122  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


INCONSTANT. 

Inconstant !  Oh,  my  God  ! 
Inconstant !  When  a  single  thought  of  thee 

Sends  all  my  quivering  blood, 
Back  on  my  heart,  in  thrills  of  ecstasy ! 

Inconstant !  When  to  sleep 
And  dream  that  thou  art  near  me,  is  to  learn 

So  much  of  heaven,  I  weep 
Because  the  earth  and  morning  must  return. 

Inconstant  I  Ah,  too  true  ! 
Turned  from  the  rightful  shelter  of  thy  breast, 

My  tired  heart  flutters  through 
The  changeful  world, — a  bird  without  a  nest. 

Inconstant  to  the  crowd 
Through  which  I  pass,  as,  to  the  skies  above, 

The  tickle  summer  cloud, 
But  not  to  thee,  oh,  not  to  thee,  dear  love ! 

I  may  be  false  to  all 
On  earth  beside,  and  every  tender  tie 

Which  seems  to  hold  in  thrall 
This  weary  life  of  mine,  may  be  a  lie ; 

But  true  as  God's  own  truth. 
My  steadfast  heart  turns  backward  evermore 

To  that  sweet  time  of  youth 
Whose  golden  tide  beats  such  a  barren  shore ! 

Inconstant !  Not  my  own 
The  hand  which  builds  this  wall  between  our  lives ; 

On  its  cold  shadow,  grown 
To  perfect  shape,  the  flower  of  love  survives. 

God  knows  that  I  would  give 
All  other  joys,  the  sweetest  and  the  best, 

For  one  short  hour  to  live 
Close  to  thy  heart,  its  comfort  and  its  rest. 

But  life  is  not  all  dark ; 
The  sunlight  gladdens  many  a  hidden  slope, 

The  dove  shall  find  its  ark 
Of  peaceful  refuge  and  of  patient  hope. 

I  yet  shall  be  possessed 
Of  woman's  meed — my  small  world  set  apart! 


NUMBER    SIX.  123 

Home,  love,  protection,  rest, 
And  children's  voices  singing  through  my  heart. 

By  God's  help,  I  will  be 
A  faithful  mother  and  a  tender  wife  ; 

Perhaps  even  more,  that  he 
Has  chastened  the  best  glory  from  my  life. 

But  sacred  to  this  loss, 
One  white  sweet  chamber  of  my  heart  shall  be; 

No  foot^  shall  ever  cross 
The  silent  portal  sealed  to  love  and  thee. 

And  sometimes  when  my  lips 
Are  to  my  first-born's  clinging,  Close  and  long, 

Draining  with  bee-like  sips 
At  its  sweet  lily-heart,  will  it  be  wrong, 

If,  for  an  instant,  wild 
With  precious  pain,  I  put  the  truth  aside, 

And  dream  it  is  thy  child 
That  I  am  fondling  with  such  tender  pride  ? 

And  when  another's  head 
Sleeps  on  thy  heart,  if  it  should  ever  seem. 

To  be  my  own,  instead. 
Oh,  darling,  hold  it  closer  for  the  dream ! 

God  will  forgive  the  sin. 
If  sin  it  is,  our  lives  are  swept  so  dry, 

So  cold,  so  passion-clear, — 
Thank  him  death  comes  at  last-^and  so  good-bye. 


THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR.— Anna  L.  Ruth. 

Whist,  sir!    Would  ye  plaze  to  speak  aisy. 

And  sit  ye  down  there  by  the  dure  ? 
She  sleeps,  sir,  so  light  and  so  restless, 

She  hears  every  step  on  the  flure. 
What  ails  her?   God  knows!    She's  been  weakly 

For  months,  and  the  heat  dhrives  her  wild; 
The  sinnmcr  has  waste<l  and  worn  her 

Till  she's  only  the  ghost  of  a  child. 

All  Thave?    Yes,  she  is,  and  God  help  me! 
I'd  three  little  darlints  beside, 


124  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

As  purty  as  iver  ye  see,  sir, 

But  wan  by  wan  dhrooped  like,  and  died. 
What  was  it  tliat  tuk  them,  ye're  asking? 

Why,  poverty,  sure,  and  no  doubt ; 
They  perished  for  food  and  fresh  air,  sir, 

Like  flowers  dhried  up  in  a  drought. 

'Twas  dreadful  to  lose  them  ?    Ah,  was  it ! 

It  seemed  like  my  heart-strings  would  break. 
But  there's  days  when  wid  want  and  wid  sorrow, 

I'm  thankful  they're  gone,  for  their  sake. 
Their  father  f    Well,  sir,  saints  forgive  me ! 

It's  a  foul  tongue  that  lowers  its  own : 
But  wliat  wid  the  sthrikes  and  the  liquor 

I'd  better  be  strugglin'  alone. 

Do  I  want  to  kape  this  wan  f    The  darlint  1 

The  last  and  dearest  of  all ! 
Shure  you're  niver  a  father  yourself,  sir. 

Or  you  wouldn't  be  askin'  at  all. 
W^hat  is  that?    Milk  and  food  for  the  baby! 

A  docther  and  medicine  free ! 
You're  huntin'  out  all  the  sick  children. 

An'  poor,  toilin'  mothers,  like  me  ! 

God  bless  you  and  thim  that  have  sent  you ! 
-    A  new  life  you've  given  me,  so. 
Shure,  sir,  won't  you  look  in  the  cradle 

At  the  colleen  you've  saved,  'fore  you  go  ? 
O  mother  o'  mercies !  have  pity ! 

O  darlint,  why  couldn't  you  wait! 
Dead  I  dead  !  an'  the  help  in  the  dure  way  ! 

Too  late !  oh,  my  baby  !  too  late ! 


MARK    TWAIN    ON  JUVENILE    PUGILISTS. 

S.  L.  Clemens. 

"Yes,  I've  had  a  £jood  many  fifrlits  in  my  time,"  said 
old  John  Parky,  tenderly  manipulating  his  dismantled 
nose,  "and  it's  kind  of  queer,  too,  for  when  I  was  a  boy, 
the  old  man  was  always  telling  me  better.  He  was  a 
good  man  and  hated  fighting.     When  I  would  come 


NUMDli:G    SIX.  125 

home  with  my  nose  bleeding  or  with  my  face  scratched 
up,  he  used  to  call  me  out  in  the  woodshed,  and  in  a  sor- 
rowful and  discouraged  way  say,  *  So,  Johnny,  you've 
had  another  fight,  hey  ?     How  many  times  have  I  got  to 
tell  ye  how  disgraceful  and  wicked  it  is  for  boys  to  fight? 
It  was  only  yesterday  that  I  talked  to  you  an  hour  about 
the  sin  of  fighting,  and  here  you've  been  at  it  again. 
Who  was  it  with  this  time  ?      With  Tommy  Kelly,  hey  f 
Don't  you  know  any  better  than  to  fight  a  boy  that  weighs 
twenty  pounds  more  than  you  do,  besides  being  two 
years  older?     Ain't  you  got  a  spark  of  sense  about  ye? 
I  can  see  plainly  that  you  are  determined  to  break  your 
poor  father's  heart  by  your  reckless  conduct.     What 
ails  your  finger?     Tommy  bit  itf     Drat  the  little  fool! 
Didn't  ye  know  enough  to  keep  your  finger  out  of  his 
mouth  ?      Wa^  trying  to  jerk  his  chsek  of,  hey  f     Won't 
you  never  learn  to  quit  fbolin'    round  a  boy's  mouth 
with  yer  fingers?     You're  bound  to  disgrace  us  all  by 
such  wretched  behavior.     You're  determined  never  to 
be  nobody.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  Isaac  Watts — that 
wrote,  "  Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite  " — sticking 
his  fingers  in  a  boy's  mouth  to  get  'era  bit,  like  a  fool  ? 
I'm  clean  discouraged  with  ye.     Why  didn't  ye  go  for 
his  nose,  the  way  Jonathan  Edwards,  and  George  Wash- 
ington, and  Daniel  Webster  used  to  do,  when  they  was 
boys  ?      Couldn't  'cause  he  had  ye  dotvii  ?     That's  a  purty 
story  to  tell  me.     It  does  beat  all  that  you  can't  learn 
how  Socrates  and  William   Penn  used  to  gouge  when 
they  was  under,  after  the  hours  and  hours  I've  spent  in 
telling  you  about  those  great  men  !  It  seems  to  me  some- 
times as  if  I  should  have  to  give  you  up  in  despair.     It's 
an  awful  trial  to  me  to  have  a  boy  that  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  good  example,  nor  to  what  I  say.     AVliat ! 
You  pulled  out  three  or  four  handfuls  of  his  hair  f     Il'm ! 
Did  he  squirm  any?     Now,  if  you'd  a  give  him  one  or 
two  in  the  eye — but  as  I've  told  ye,  many  a  time,  fight- 
ing is  poor  business.     Won't  you — for  your  father's  sake 


126  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

— 10071^  you  promise  to  try  and  remember  that  ?  H'm ! 
Johnny,  how  did  it — ahem — which  licked  ? 

"'You  licked  himf  Sho !  Really?  Well,  now,  I 
hadn't  any  idea  you  could  lick  that  Tommy  Kelly !  I 
don't  believe  John  Bunyan,  at  ten  years  old,  could  have 
done  it.  Johnny,  my  boy,  you  can't  think  how  I  hate 
to  have  you  fighting  every  day  or  two.  I  wouldn't  have 
had  him  lick  you  for  five,  no,  not  for  ten  dollars !  Now, 
sonny,  go  right  in  and  wash  up,  and  tell  your  mother  to 
put  a  rag  on  your  finger.  And,  Johnny,  don't  let  me 
hear  of  you  fighting  again  !' 

"  I  never  see  anybody  so  down  on  fighting  as  the  old 
man  was,  but  somehow  he  never  could  break  me  from  it." 


ARE  THE  CHILDREN  AT  HOME?— M.  E.  Sangster. 

Each  day  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  tripping  lightly  by, 
I  steal  away  from  my  husband. 

Asleep  in  his  easy-chair, 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead 

That  once  was  full  of  life. 
Ringing  with  girlish  laughter, 

Echoing  boyish  strife. 
We  two  are  waiting  together ; 

And  oft,  as  the  shadows  come, 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me, 

"  It  is  night !  are  the  children  home  ?" 

"Yes,  love!"  I  answer  him  gently, 

"They're  all  home  long  ago  ;" 
And  I  sing,  in  my  quivering  treble, 

A  song  so  soft  and  low, 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumber, 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number, 

Home  in  the  better  land, — 


NUMBER    SIX.  127 

Home,  where  never  a  sorrow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  v/ith  tears! 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years  I 
I  know  I — Yet  my  arms  are  empty 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  heaven. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  all  about  me, 

A  vision  from  the  skies  ; 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lost  the  way  to  my  breast, 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels, 

Passed  to  the  world  of  the  blessed. 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  them, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows; 
My  boys  that  I  gave  to  freedom — 

The  red  sword  sealed  then-  vows ! 
In  a  tangled  Southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers,  bold  and  brave, 
They  fell ;  and  the  fiag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God !  floats  over  their  grave. 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  wings  of  light, 
And  again  we  two  are  together, 

All  alone  in  the  night. 
They  tell  me  his  mind  is  failing. 

But  i  smile  at  idle  IVars; 
He  is  only  back  witli  the  children, 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And,  still,  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west. 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  rest. 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner, 

"Say,  love  !  have  the  chiWren  come?" 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted, 

"  Yes,  dear  !  they  are  all  at  humc !" 

— ALlanUc  Munlhly. 

(jO* 


/128  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


FITZ-JAMES  AND  RODERICK  DHU.— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Fitz-James,  king  of  Scotlami,  while  hunting,  becomes  separated  from  his  cora- 
paiiiuiis  and  lust  in  tlie  deptlis  uf  the  furest.  In  his  efforts  to  find  his  way  out, 
he  lulls  in  witli  Kodorick  Uliu,  who  reveals  his  own  identity,  guides  the  stranger 
as  far  as  Coilantogle  Ford,  and  there  challenges  him  to  mortal  combat. 

The  chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore. 

And  here  his  course  the  chieftain  stayed, 

Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 

And  to  the  lowland  warrior  said  ; 

"  Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich  Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man, 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe  through  watch  and  ward, 

Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here  all  vantageless  I  stand. 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  Ford, 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  M'ith  thy  sword." 

The  Saxon  paused :  "  I  ne'er  delayed. 

When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 

Nay,  more,  brave  chief,  I  vowed  thy  death, 

Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 

And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 

A  better  meed  have  well  deserved : 

Can  nought  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 

Are  there  no  means?"     "  No,  stranger,  none! 

And  hear — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal — 

The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ; 

For  thus  spoke  fate  by  prophet  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 

"  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life. 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife." 

"Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 

"The  riddle  is  already  read: 

Seek  yonder  brake,  beneath  the  cliff. 

There  lies  Red  ]\Iurdock,  stark  and  stiflf ; 

Thus  fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy, 

Then  yield  to  fate,  and  not  to  me." 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye — 

"Soars  thy  presumption  then  so  liigh, 


NUMBER    SIX.  12S 

Because  a  wretched  kern  xg  slew, 

Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 

He  yiekls  not,  he,  to  man  nor  Fate ! 

Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  ni}'  hate  — 

My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge, 

Kot  yet  prepared  ?    I>y  heaven,  I  change 

My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 

As  that  of  some  vain  carpet-knight, 

"Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care. 

And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 

A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." 

"I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word! 

It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  mj-  suord ; 

For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 

In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 

Kow,  truce,  farewell !  and  ruth,  begone  ! 

Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone. 

Proud  chief!  can  courtesy  be  shov.n. 

Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn, 

Start  at  nay  whistle  clansmen  stern, 

Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 

Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 

But  fear  not— doubt  not — which  thou  wilt — 

We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." 

Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 

Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 

Each  looked  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  jjlain, 

As  what  he  ne'er  might  see  again  ; 

Then,  foot  and  point  and  eye  opposed. 

In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 

That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 

Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 

Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside ; 

For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield^ 

Fitz-.Iames's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 

He  i)ractised  every  ])ass  and  ward. 

To  thrust,  to  strike,  t(j  feint,  to  guard ; 

While,  less  expert,  thougli  stronger  far. 

The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 

Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood. 

And  tlirice  tlie  Saxon  blaile  «hank  blood; 

iSo  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tiile. 

The  gushing  lluod  the  tartans  dyed. 
6» 


130  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 

And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain ; 

And  as  firm  rock,  or  castle  roof, 

Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 

The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 

Foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill. 

Till  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 

Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand  ; 

And,  backward  borne  upon  the  lea. 

Brought  the  proud  chieftain  to  his  knee. 

"  Now,  yield  thee,  or,  by  him  who  made 

The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dyes  my  blade!" 

"Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy  ! 

Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." 

Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil. 

Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil, 

Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young. 

Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung; 

Received,  but  recked  not  of  a  wound, 

And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round. 

Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own ! 

No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown ! 

That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel. 

Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel ! 

They  tug !  they  strain ! — down,  down  they  go, 

The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below. 

The  chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 

His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 

His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw. 

Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew. 

From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight. 

Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright ! 

But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 

The  stream  of  life's  exliausted  tide. 

And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came 

To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game  ; 

For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high. 

Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eye. 

Down  came  the  blow  I  but  in  the  heath 

The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 

The  struggling  foe  inay  now  unclasp 

The  fainting  chiefs  relaxing  grasp. 

Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 

But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 


NUMBER    SIX.  131 


exa:\iples  for  Ireland.— t.  f.  Meaghee. 

Other  nations,  with  abilities  far  less  eminent  than 
those  which  you  possess,  having  great  difficulties  to  en- 
counter, have  obeyed  with  heroism  the  commandment 
from  which  you  have  swerved,  maintaining  that  noble 
order  of  existence,  through  which  even  the  poorest  state 
becomes  an  instructive  chapter  in  the  great  history  of 
the  world. 

Shame  upon  you!  Switzerland — without  a  colon}', 
without  a  gun  upon  the  seas,  without  a  helping  hand 
from  any  court  in  Europe — has  held  for  centuries  her 
footing  on  the  Alps  in  spite  of  the  avalanche ;  has  bid  her 
little  territory  sustain,  in  peace  and  plenty,  the  children 
to  whom  she  has  given  birth  ;  has  trained  those  children 
up  in  the  arts  that  contribute  most  to  the  security,  the 
joy,  the  dignity  of  life  ;  has  taught  them  to  depend  upon 
themselves,  and  for  their  fortune  to  be  thankful  to  no 
officious  stranger ;  and,  though  a  blood-red  cloud  is  break- 
ing over  one  of  her  brightest  lakes,  whatever  plague  it 
may  portend,  be  assured  of  this — the  cap  of  foreign  des- 
potism will  never  again  gleam  in  the  market-place  of 
Altorff! 

Shame  upon  you  !  Norway — with  her  scanty  popula- 
tion, scarce  a  million  strong — has  kept  her  flag  upon  the 
Cattegat  ;•  has  reared  a  race  of  gallant  sailors  to  guard 
her  frozen  soil ;  year  after  year  has  nursed  upon  that 
soil  a  harvest  to  which  the  Swede  can  lay  no  claim  ; 
has  saved  her  ancient  laws  ;  and  to  the  s})irit  of  her  frank 
and  hardy  sons  commits  the  freedom  which  she  rescued 
from  the  allied  swords,  when  they  hacked  her  crown  at 
Frcderickstadt ! 

Shame  upon  you  !  Greece — "whom  Goth,  nor  Turk, 
nor  Time  liath  spared  not  " — has  flung  the  crescent  from 
the  Acropolis;  has  crowned  a  King  in  Athens  whom 
she  calls  her  own  ;  has  taught  you  that  a  nation  should 
never  die,  that  not  for  an  idle  pageant  has  the  blood  of 


132  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

heroes  flowed,  that  not  to  vex  a  school-boy's  brain,  nor 
smoulder  in  a  heap  of  learned  dust,  has  the  fire  of  heaven 
issued  from  the  tribune's  tongue ! 

Shame  upon  you  !  Holland — ■svith  the  ocean  as  her 
foe,  from  the  swamp  in  which  you  would  have  sunk 
your  graves — has  bid  the  palace,  and  the  warehouse  cost- 
lier than  the  palace,  rear  their  ponderous  shapes  above 
the  waves  that  battle  at  their  base ;  has  outstripped  the 
merchant  of  the  Rialto;  has  threatened  England  in  the 
Thames ;  has  swept  the  channel  with  her  broom — and, 
tliough  for  a  day  she  reeled  before  the  bayonets  of  Du- 
mouriez,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  again  and  struck  the  tri- 
color from  her  dykes ! 

And  you — you,  who  are  eight  millions  strong — you, 
who  boast  at  every  meeting  that  this  island  is  the  finest 
which  the  sun  looks  down  upon — you,  who  have  no 
threatening  sea  to  stem,  no  avalanche  to  dread — you, 
who  say  that  you  could  shield  along  your  coast  a  thou- 
sand sail,  and  be  the  princes  of  a  mighty  commerce — 
you,  who  by  the  magic  of  an  honest  hand,  beneath  each 
summer  sky,  might  cull  a  plentous  harvest  from  your 
soil,  and  Avith  the  sickle  strike  away  the  scythe  of  death 
— you,  who  have  no  vulgar  history  to  read — you,  who 
can  trace,  from  field  to  field,  the  evidences  of  civilization 
older  than  the  Conquest ;  the  relics  of  a  religion  far  more 
ancient  than  the  Gospel — you,  who  have  thus  been 
blessed,  thus  been  gifted,  thus  been  prompted  to  what  is 
wise  and  generous  and  great,  you  will  make  no  effort ; 
you  will  whine,  and  beg,  and  skulk,  in  sores  and  rags, 
upon  this  favored  land ;  you  will  congregate  in  drowsy 
councils,  and  then,  when  the  very  earth  is  loosening  be- 
neath your  feet,  you  will  bid  a  prosperous  voyage  to 
your  last  grain  of  corn ;  you  will  be  beggared  by  the 
million  ;  you  will  perish  by  the  thousand  ;  and  the  finest 
island  which  the  sun  looks  down  upon,  amid  the  jeers 
and  hootings  of  the  world,  will  blacken  into  a  plague- 
spot,  a  wilderness,  a  sepulclire. 


NUMBER    SIX.  133 


MISS  MALONEY  ON  THE  CHINESE  QUESTION. 
Maky  M.  Dodge. 

Ocli !  don't  be  talkin'.  Is  it  howld  on  ye  say  f  An' 
didn't  I  howld  on  till  the  heart  of  me  was  clane  broke 
entirely,  and  me  wastin'  that  thin  you  could  clutch  me 
\vid  yer  two  hands.  To  think  o'  me  toilin'  like  a  nager, 
for  the  six  year  I've  been  in  Ameriky — bad  luck  to  the 
day  I  iver  left  the  owld  counthry !  to  be  bate  by  the 
likes  o'  them  !  (Faix  an'  I'll  sit  down  when  I'm  ready, 
so  I  will,  Ann  Ryan,  an'  ye'd  better  be  iistenin'  than 
drawin'  your  remarks.)  An'  is  it  mcself,  wid  five  good 
characters  from  respectable  places,  would  be  herdin'  wid 
the  haytliens  ? 

The  saints  forgive  me  but  I'd  be  buried  alive  soone^  n 
put  up  wid  it  a  day  longer.  Shure  an'  I  was  the  grane- 
horn  not  to  bo  lavin'  at  onct  when  the  missus  kirn  into 
me  kitchen  wid  her  perlaver  about  the  new  waiter  nu-.n 
which  was  brought  out  from  Californy.  "  He'll  be  here 
the  night,"  says  she,  "  and  Kitty,  it's  meself  looks  to  you 
to  be  kind  and  patient  wid  him  for  he's  a  furriner,"  says 
she,  a  kind  o'  lookin'  off.  "  Shure  an'  it's  little  I'll  hin- 
der ntjr  interfarc  wid  him  nor  any  other,  mum,"  says 
I,  a  kind  o'  stiff,  fur  I  minded  me  how  these  Frinch 
■waiters,  wid  their  paper  collars  and  brass  rings  on  their 
fingers,  isn't  company  for  no  gurril  brought  up  dacint 
and  honest. 

Och !  sorra  a  bit!  knew  what  was  comin'  till  the  missus 
walked  into  me  kitchen  smilin',  and  says  kind  o'  sheared: 
"  Here's  Fing  Wing,  Kitty,  an'  you'll  have  too  much 
sinse  to  mind  his  bein'  a  little  strange."  Wid  that  she 
shoots  the  doorc,  and  I,  misthrusting  if  I  was  tidied  up 
fcufficient  for  me  fine  buy  wid  his  paper  collar,  looks  up 
and — howly  fathers !  may  1  niver  brathe  another  breath, 
but  there  stud  a  rale  liaythc^n  Cliincscr  a-grinnin'  like 
he'd  just  come  off  a  tay-box.  *  If  you'll  belave  me,  the 
cruyture  was  that  yaller  it  'ud  sicken  you  to  sen  him: 


134  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

an'  sorra  a  stitch  was  on  him,  but  a  black  night-gown 
over  his  trousers,  and  the  front  of  his  head  shaved  claner 
nor  a  copper  biler,  and  a  black  tail  a-hangin'  down  from 
behind,  wid  his  two  feet  stock  into  the  haythenestest 
shoes  you  ever  set  eyes  on.  Och !  but  I  was  up-stairs 
before  you  could  turn  about,  a-givin'  the  missus  warniu', 
and  only  stopt  wid  her  by  her  raisin'  me  wages  two  dol- 
lars and  playdin'  wid  me  how  it  was  a  Christian's  duty 
to  bear  wid  haythens,  and  taich  'em  all  in  our  power — 
the  saints  save  us !  Well,  the  ways  and  thrials  I  had 
wid  that  Chineser,  Ann  Ryan,  I  couldn't  be  tellin'. 
Not  a  blissed  thing  cud  I  do,  but  he'd  be  lookin'  on  wid 
his  eyes  cocked  up'ard  like  two  poomp-handles,  an'  he 
widdout  a  speck  or  smitch  o'  whishkers  on  him,  an'  his 
finger  nails  full  a  yard  long.  But  it's  dyin'  you'd  be  to 
see  the  missus  a-larnin'  him,  and  he  griunin',  an'  waggin' 
his  pig-tail  (which  was  pieced  out  long  wid  some  black 
stoof,  the  haythen  chate !)  and  gettin'  into  her  ways 
wonderful  quick,  I  don't  deny,  imitatin'  that  sharp,  you'd 
be  shurprised,  an'  ketchin'  an'  copyin'  things  the  best  of 
us  will  do  a-hurried  wid  work,  yet  don't  want  comin'  to 
the  knowledge  of  the  family — bad  luck  to  him  ! 

Is  it  ate  wid  himf  Arrah,  an'  would  I  be  sittin'  wid 
a  haythen,  an'  he  a-atin'  wid  drum  sticks-^yes,  an'  atin' 
dogs  an'  cats  unknownst  to  me,  I  warrant  you,  which  it 
is  the  custom  of  them  Chinesers,  till  the  thought  made 
me  that  sick  I  could  die.  An'  didn't  the  crayture  proffer 
to  help  me  a  wake  ago  come  Toosday,  an'  me  a  foldin' 
down  me  clane  clothes  for  ironin',  an'  fill  his  haythen 
moutli  wid  water,  an'  afore  I  could  hinder,  squarrit  it 
through  his  teeth  stret  over  the  best  linen  table-cloth, 
and  fold  it  up  tight,  as  iunercent  now  as  a  baby,  the 
dirrity  baste! 

But  the  worrest  of  all  was  the  copyin'  he'd  be  doin' 
till  ye'd  be  dishtracted.  It's  yerself  knows  the  tinder 
feet  that's  on  me  since  iver  I've  bin  in  this  counthry 
V/ell,   owiu'  to   that,  I    fell   into  a  way  o'  slippin'  me 


NtTMBER    SIX.  135 

shoes  off  when  I'd  be  settin'  down  to  pale  the  pra- 
ties or  the  likes  o'  that,  and,  do  ye  mind !  that  haythen 
would  do  the  same  thing  after  me,  whiniver  the  missus 
set  him  to  parin'  apples  or  toraaterses.  The  saints  in 
heaven  couldn't  have  made  him  belave  he  cud  kape  the 
shoes  on  him  when  he'd  be  paylin'  anything. 

Did  I  lave  fur  that  f  Faix  an'  I  didn't.  Didn't  he 
get  me  into  throuble  wid  my  missus,  the  haythen  ?  You're 
aware  yersel'  how  the  boondles  comin'  in  from  the 
grocery  often  contains  more'n'll  go  into  anything  da- 
eently.  So,  for  that  matter  I'd  now  and  then  take  out 
a  sup  o'  sugar,  or  flour,  or  tay,  an'  wrap  it  in  paper  and 
put  it  in  me  bit  of  a  box  tucked  under  the  ironin'  blan- 
kit,  the  how  it  cuddent  be  bodderin'  any  one.  Well, 
"what  shud  it  be,  but  this  blessid  Sathurday  morn,  the 
missus  was  a  spakin'  pleasant  and  respectful  wid  me  in 
me  kitchen,  when  the  grocer  boy  comes  in  an'  stands 
fornenst  her  wid  his  boondles,  an'  she  motions  like  to 
Fing  Wing  (which  I  never  would  call  him  by  that  name 
nor  any  other  but  just  haythen),  she  motions  to  him, 
she  docs,  for  to  take  the  boondles  an'  empty  out  the  sugar, 
an'  what  not,  where  they  belongs.  If  you'll  belave  me, 
Ann  Ryan,  what  did  that  blatherin'  Chineser  do  but 
take  out  a  sup  o'  sugar,  an'  a  handful  o'  tay,  an'  a  bit  o' 
chaise  right  afore  the  missus,  wrap  them  into  bits  o'  paper, 
an'  I  spacheless  wid  shurprise,  an'  he  the  next  minute 
up  wid  the  ironin'  blankit  and  pullin'  out  me  box  wid  a 
show  o'  bein'  sly  to  put  them  in.  Och,  the  Lord  forgive 
me  but  I  clutched  it,  and  the  missus  sayin',  "  O  Kitty  !" 
in  a  way  that  'ud  cruddle  your  blood.  "  He's  a  haythen 
nager,"  says  I.  "  I've  found  you  out,"  says  she.  "  I'll 
arrist  him,"  says  I.  "  It's  you  ought  to  be  arristed," 
says  she.  "  You  won't,"  says  I.  "  I  will,"  says  she — 
and  so  it  went  till  she  give  me  such  sass  as  I  cuddent 
take  from  no  lady — an'  I  give  her  warnin'  an'  left  that 
instant,  an'  she  a-pointin'  to  the  doore. 

From  "Etchlnrjs"  in  iScribner's  Moufhhj. 


136  ONE    nUNDEED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


CLAUDE  MELNOTTE'S  APOLOGY.— Bulwer. 

In  the  popular  drama,  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  Claude  Melnotte,  who  had  re- 
ceived many  indignities  to  his  slighted  love,  from  Pauline,  was  induced  to  marry 
her  undtT  the  false  appearance  of  an  Italian  prince.  This  extract  represents  tlieir 
arrival  at  his  humble  home  and  the  exposure  of  his  deception.  Thei-e,  however, 
he  repents  his  bitter  revenge;  makes  iumiediate  amends  by  restoring  the  lady  to 
her  parents;  enters  the  army  and  gains  an  honorable  position,  after  which  he 
becomes,  in  fact,  her  husband. 

Melnotte.        Now,  lady,  hear  me. 

Pauline.  Hear  thee!    Ay,  speak, 

That  thou  mayst  silence  curses — SjDeak ! 

Melnotte.  No,  curse  me  : 

Thy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 

Pauijne  {laughing  wildly).     This  is  thy  "palace,  where  the 
perfumed  light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps. 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves,  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains,  that  gush  forth 
I'  the  midst  of  roses !"     Dost  thou  like  the  picture? 
This  is  my  bridal  home,  and  thou  my  bridegroom! 

0  fool ! — O  dujie ! — O  wretch ! — I  see  it  all — 
The  by-word  and  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 

In  Lyons !     Hast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 
Of  human  kindness  ?    If  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 
And  save  thy  wife  from  madness.     No,  it  cannot, 
It  cannot  be !  this  is  some  horrid  dream : 

1  shall  wake  soon.  {Touching  him.)  Art  flesh  ?  art  man  '  or  buf 
The  shadows  seen  in  sleep? — It  is  too  real. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee,  how  sinned  against  thee. 
That  thou  shouldst  crush  me  thus  ? 

Melnotte.  Pauline,  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride, — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould, — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love 
And  a  revengeful  heart  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years  my  soul  Vva.s  tilled  with  thee; 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee, — a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  spring  itself 
Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thj^  shape! 
I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Entered  the  breast  of  the  wild  dreaming  boy ; 
And  from  that  hour  I  grew — what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be  —thine  adorer !     Well,  this  love. 


NUMBER    SIX.  137 

Vain,  frantic,— guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 

A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope ; 

I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 

Old  gossips  tell, — how  maidens  sprung  from  kings 

Have  stooped  from  their  high  sphere ;  how  Love,  like  Death, 

Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 

Beside  the  sceptre.    Thus  I  made  my  home 

In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  future ! 

My  father  died ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born, 

Was  my  own  lord.    Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 

Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate ; 

And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 

Brings  from  the  caves  of  knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 

From  those  twin  jailors  of  the  daring  heart,— 

Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.    Thy  bright  image, 

Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory, 

And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 

By  which  man  masters  men !     For  thee,  I  grew 

A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages ! 

For  thee,  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  grace 

And  every  muse  such  attributes  as  lend 

Ideal  charms  to  love.     I  thought  of  thee, 

And  passion  taught  me  poesy, — of  thee, 

And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 

Of  beauty ! — Art  became  the  shadow 

Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes ! 

Men  called  me  vain, — some,  mad, — I  heeded  not; 

But  still  toiled  on,  hoped  on,  for  it  was  sweet. 

If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy,  thee ! 

Pauline.    Has  he  a  magic  to  exorcise  hate  ? 

Melnotte.    At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  jwur 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee,— such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name — appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn  I 
That  very  hour — when  passion,  turned  to  wrath, 
Resembled  hatred  most;  when  tl)y  disdain 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos — in  tliat  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 
For  their  revenge  I    Tliou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm,— 
It  turned,  and  stung  thee  I 


138  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


CONSCIENCE  AND  FUTURE  JUDGMENT. 

I  sat  alone  with  my  conscience, 
In  a  place  where  time  had  ceased, 
And  we  talked  of  my  former  Jiving 
In  the  land  where  the  years  increased ; 
And  I  felt  I  should  have  to  answer 
The  question  it  might  put  to  me, 
And  to  face  the  question  and  answer 
Throughout  an  eternity. 

The  ghosts  of  forgotten  actions 
Came  floating  before  my' sight. 
And  things  that  I  thought  had  perished 
Were  alive  with  a  terrible  might ; 
And  the  vision  of  life's  dark  record 
Was  an  awful  thing  to  face — 
Alone  with  my  conscience  sitting 
In  that  solemnly  silent  place. 

And  I  thought  of  a  far-away  warning, 

Of  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be  mine. 

In  a  land  that  then  was  the  future. 

But  now  is  the  present  time ; 

And  I  thought  of  my  former  thinking 

Of  the  judgment  day  to  be; 

But  sitting  alone  with  my  conscience 

Seemed  judgment  enough  for  me. 

And  I  wondered  if  there  was  a  future 
To  this  land  beyond  the  grave ; 
But  no  one  gave  me  an  answer 
And  no  one  came  to  save. 
Then  I  felt  that  the  future  was  present, 
And  the  present  would  never  go  by, 
For  it  was  but  the  thought  of  a  future 
Become  an  eternity. 

Then  I  woke  from  my  timely  dreaming, 

And  the  viision  passed  away  ;  , 

And  I  knew  the  far-away  warning 

Was  a  warning  of  yesterday. 

And  I  pray  that  I  may  not  forget  it 

In  this  land  before  the  grave. 

That  I  may  not  cry  out  in  the  future, 

And  no  one  come  to  sav&> 


NUMBER    six'.  139 

I  have  learned  a  solemn  lesson 
Which  I  ought  to  have  known  before, 
And  which,  though  I  learned  it  dreaming, 
I  hope  to  forget  no  more. 

So  I  sit  alone  with  my  conscience 

In  the  place  where  the  years  increase, 

And  I  try  to  fathom  the  future, 

In  the  land  where  time  shall  cease. 

And  I  know  of  the  future  judgment, 

How  dreadful  soe'er  it  be. 

That  to  sit  alone  with  my  conscience 

Will  be  judgment  enough  for  me. 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN.— J.  Q.  Adams. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so; 

But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many,  and,  if  told, 

Would  muster  many  a  score  ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 

I  still  should  long  for  more. 

What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread ; 

And  canvas-backs — and  wine; 
And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me,  wlien  I  dine. 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  ai)petite  to  quell; 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France,  beside, 

To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  next  I  want,  at  princely  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire  ; 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silks  for  summer's  fire. 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels  lace 

]\Iy  liosom's  front  to  deck, — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace, 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

I  want  (who  docs  not  want?)  a  wife,; — 
Allectionatu  and  fair; 


140  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

And  all  its  joys  to  share  ; 
Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm,  yet  placid  mind ; 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs, 

And  Fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

From  eight  to  half  a  score. 
I  want  (alas !  can  mortal  dare 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ?) 
That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair, — 

The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flattery  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power, — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong. 

My  inmost  soul  to  see ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

For  him,  as  his  for  me. 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place, 

The  ensigns  of  command  ; 
Charged  by  the  people's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  native  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task. 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind, 
And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human-kind, 
That  after  ages,  as  they  rise. 

Exulting  may  proclaim, 
In  choral  union  to  the  skies, 

Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  man,— 

I  cannot  want  them  long, 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss,  a  song. 


NUMBERSIX.  •      .  141 


My  last  great  want,  absorbing  all, 
Is,  when  beneath  the  sod, 

And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 
The  Mercy  of  my  God. 


A  NIGHT  WITH  A  VENTRILOQUIST. 

Hexry  Cockton. 

Scene. — A  double-bedded  room,  Valentine  Vox,  a  noted 
ventriloquist,  occupying  one  of  the  beds. 

"  Now  for  a  beautiful  night's  rest,"  observed  Mr.  Jonas 
Beagle  to  himself,  as  he  put  out  the  light  with  a  tranquil 
mind,  and  turned  in  with  a  great  degree  of  comfort. 

"  Mew  !  mew  !"  cried  Valentine,  softly,  throwing  his 
voice  under  the  bed  of  Mr.  Beagle. 

"  Hish  !— confound  that  cat !"  cried  Mr.  Beagle.  "We 
must  have  you  out  at  all  events,  my  lady."  And  Mr. 
Beagle  at  once  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  liaving  opened 
the  door,  cried  "  hish  !"  again,  emphatically,  and  threw 
his  trousers  towards  the  spot,  as  an  additional  induce- 
ment for  the  cat  to  "  stand  not  on  the  order  of  her  go- 
ing," when,  as  Valentine  repeated  the  cry,  and  made  it 
appear  to  proceed  from  the  stairs,  i\Ir.  Beagle  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  was  gone,  closed  the  door,  and  very 
carefully  groped  his  way  again  into  bed. 

"  Mew !  mew  !  mew  !"  cried  Valentine  just  as  Mr.  Bea- 
gle had  again  comfortably  composed  himself. 

"What!  are  you  there  still,  madam  V"  inquired  that 
gentleman,  in  a  highly  sarcastic  tone.  I  thought  you 
had  been  turned  out,  madam  !  Do  you  hear  this  witch 
of  a  cat?"  he  continued,  addressing  Valentine,  with  a 
view  of  conferring  ujxm  him  the  lion(M'able  office  of 
tvler  for  the  time  Ijeing ;  but  Valentine  replied  with  a 
deep,  heavy  snt^re,  and  began  to  mew  again  with  ad- 
ditional emphasis. 

"  Well,  I  don't  have  a  treat  every  day,  it  is  true ;  but 
if  this   isn't   one,  why  I'm   out  in  my  reckoning,  that's 


142  ONE.HUNDRBD    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

all !"  observed  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle,  slipping  again  out  of 
bed.  "  I  don't  much  like  to  handle  you,  my  lady,  but  if 
I  did,  I'd  give  you  poison  ;"  and  he  "  lushed !"  again  with 
consummate  violence,  and  continued  to  "  hish !"  until 
Valentine  scratched  the  bed-post  sharply, — a  feat  which 
inspired  Mr.  Beagle  with  the  conviction  of  its  being  the 
disturber  of  his  peace  in  the  act  of  decamping, — when 
he  threw  his  pillow  very  energetically  towards  the  door, 
which  he  closed,  and  returned  to  his  bed  in  triumph, 
after  again  securing  the  pillow. 

Now  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle  was  a  man  who  prided  himself 
especially  upon  the  evenness  of  his  temper.  His  boast 
was,  that  nothing  could  put  him  in  a  passion.  He  did 
feel,  however,  as  he  violently  smote  the  pillow,  that  that 
little  ebullition  partook  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  pas- 
sion, and  had  just  commenced  reproaching  himself  for  do- 
ing so,  when  Valentine  cried,  "  Meyow  ! — pit ! — meyow  !" 

"  Hallo  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle,  "  here  again  ?" 

"  Meyow  !"  cried  Valentine,  in  a  somewhat  higher  key. 

"  What !  another  come  to  contribute  to  the  harmony 
of  the  evening  ?" 

"  Meyow  !"  cried  Valentine,  in  a  still  higher  tone. 

"  Well,  how  many  more  of  you  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Bea- 
gle ;  "  you'll  be  able  to  get  up  a  concert  by-and-by  ;"  as 
Valentine  began  to  spit  and  swear  with  great  felicity. 

"Swear  away,  you  beauties!"  cried  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle, 
as  he  listened  to  this  volley  of  feline  oaths.  "  I  only  wish 
that  I  was  not  so  much  afraid  of  you,  for  your  sakes ! 
At  it  again  ?  Well,  this  is  a  blessing.  Don't  you  hear 
these  devils  of  cats?"  he  cried,  anxious  not  to  have  all 
the  fun  to  himself;  but  Valentilie  recommenced  snoring 
very  loudly.  "  Well,  this  is  particularly  pleasant,"  he 
continued,  as  he  sat  up  in  bed.  "Don't  you  hear? 
What  a  comfort  it  is  to  be  able  to  sleep  soundly  !"  which 
remarkable  observation  was  doubtless  provoked  by  the 
no  less  remarkable  fact,  that  at  that  particular  moment 
the  spitting  and  swearing  became  more  and  more  des- 


MUMBKK    SIX,  143 

perate.  "What's  to  be  done?"  he  inquired  very  point- 
edly,— "  what's  to  be  done  ?  My  trousers  are  right  in  the 
midst  of  them.  I  can't  get  out  now ;  they'd  tear  the 
very  flesh  ofl'  my  legs ;  and  that  fellow  there  sleeps  like 
a  top.  Hallo !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  hear 
these  cats,  how  they're  going  it?"  Valentine  certainly 
meant  to  say  no  such  thing,  for  the  whole  of  the  time 
that  he  was  not  engaged  in  meyowing  and  spitting,  he  was 
diligently  occupied  in  snoring,  which  had  a  very  good 
etiect,  and  served  to  fill  up  the  intervals  excellently  well. 

At  length  the  patience  of  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle  began  to 
evaporate,  for  the  hostile  animals  continued  to  battle  ap- 
parently with  great  desperation.  He,  therefore,  threw  a 
pillow  with  great  violence  at  his  companion,  and  shouted 
so  loudly  that  Valentine,  feeling  that  it  would  be  deemed 
perfect  nonsense  for  him  to  pretend  to  be  asleep  any  longer, 
yawned  very  naturally,  and  then  cried  out,  "Who's  there?" 

"  'Tis  I !""  shouted  Mr.  Beagle.    "  Don't  you  hear  these 
witches  of  cats  ?" 
■    "  Hish !"  cried  Valentine ;  "  why,  there's  two  of  them  !" 

"  Two  ?"  said  Mr.  Beagle,  "  more  likely  two  and  twen- 
ty !  I've  turned  out  a  dozen  myself.  There's  a  swarm,  a 
■whole  colony  of  them  here,  and  I  know  no  more  how  to 
strike  a  light  than  a  fool." 

"  Oh,  never  mind !"  said  Valentine ;  "  let's  go  to  sleep, 
they'll  be  quiet  by-and-by." 

"  It's  all  very  fine  to  say  '  Let's  go  to  sleep,'  but  who's 
to  do  it  ?"  cried  Beagle,  emphatically.  "  Plague  the  cats ! 
I  wish  there  wasn't  a  cat  under  heaven — I  do,  with  all 
my  soul !  They're  such  spiteful  vermin,  too,  when  they 
happen  to  be  put  out ;  and  there's  one  of  them  in  a  pas- 
sion, I  know  by  her  spittitig  ;  I  wish  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart  it  was  the  very  last  spit  she  had  in  her." 

While  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle  was  indulging  in  these  highly 
appropriate  observations,  Valentine  was  laboring  with 
great  energy.  He  ])urred,  and  mewed,  and  cried,  and 
spit,  until  the  perspiration  oozed  from  every  pore. 


144  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Well,  this  18  a  remarkably  nice  position  for  a  man  to 
be  placed  in,  certainly,"  observed  Mr.  Beagle,  "  Did 
you  ever  hear  such  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth  ?  Are 
you  never  going  to  leave  off,  you  devils  f  he  added, 
throwing  the  bolster  with  great  violence  under  the  bed, 
and  therefore,  as  he  fondly  conceived,  right  amongst 
tiiem.  Instead,  however,  of  striking  the  cats  therewith, 
it  passed  under  the  bed  with  great  velocity,  making  such 
a  racket  that  he  began  to  "  tut !  tut !"  and  to  scratch  his 
head  audibly. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  demanded  Plumplee,  in  the  passage 
below,  for  he  slept  in  the  room  beneath,  and  the  noise 
had  alarmed  him.  "Who's  there?  d'ye  hear?  Speak, 
or  I'll  shoot  you  like  a  dog !"  and  on  the  instant  the  re- 
port of  a  pistol  was  heard,  which  in  all  probability  had 
been  fired  with  the  view  of  convincing  all  whom  it  might 
concern  that  he  had  such  a  thing  as  a  pistol  in  the  house. 
"  Who's  there  ?"  he  again  demanded  ;  "  you  vagabonds, 
I'll  be  at  you !  Beagle  !"  he  shouted,  after  waiting  in 
vain  for  the  street  door  to  bang. 

"  Here  !"  cried  Beagle,  "  come  up  here !  It's  nothing ! 
I'll  explain !  For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  added,  addressing 
Valentine,  "  open  the  door !"  but  Valentine  was  too  much 
engaged  to  pay  attention  to  any  such  request. 

At  this  moment  the  footsteps  of  Plumplee  were  heard 
upon  the  stairs,  and  Beagle,  who  then  began  to  feel 
somewhat  better,  cried,  "  Come  in  !  my  friend,  come  in  !" 

"AVhat  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  inquired  Mr.  Plum- 
plee, as  he  entered  the  room  pale  as  a  ghost,  in  his  night 
shirt,  with  a  pistol  in  one  hand  and  a  lamp  in  the  other. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Beagle  ;  "  'twas  I  that  made  the 
noise.  I've  been  besieged  by  a  cohort  of  cats.  They 
have  been  at  it  here  making  most  healthful  music  under 
my  bed  for  the  kst  two  hours,  and  I  was  trying  to  make 
them  hold  their  peace  with  the  bolster,  that's  all." 

"Cats!"  cried  Mr.  Plumplee,  "mfe.^  you  ate  a  little 
too  much  cucumber,  my  friend  ;  that  and  the  crabs  were 


NUMCKR    SIX,  145 

too  heavy  for  your  stomach !  You  have  been  dreaming, 
vou've  had  the  ni>rhtmare !  We  haven't  a  cat  in  the 
house  ;  I  can't  bear  them." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  rejoined  Beagle ;  "  they're  about 
here  in  swarms.  If  I've  turned  one  cat  out  this  night, 
I'm  sure  that  I've  turned  out  twenty !  I've  in  fact  done 
nothing  else  since  I  came  up !  In  and  out,  in  and  out ! 
Upon  my  life,  I  think  I  can't  have  opened  that  blessed 
door  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  times  ;  and  that  young 
fellow  there  has  been  all  the  while  fast  asleep!" 

"  I  tell  you,  my  friend,  you've  been  dreaming !  We 
have  never  had  a  cat  about  the  premises." 

"  Meyow, — meyow  !"  cried  Valentine,  quietly. 

"Now  have  I  been  dreaming?"  triumphantly  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Beagle  ;  "  now  have  I  had  the  nightmare?" 

"  Bless  my  life !"  cried  Mr.  Plumplee,  jumping  upon 
Mr.  Beagle's  bed,  "  they  don't  belong  to  me." 

"  I  d'ju't  know  whom  they  belong  to,"  returned  Mr. 
Beagle,  "  nor  do  I  much  care  ;  I  only  know  that  there 
they  are.'  If  you'll  just  hook  those  breeches  up  here, 
I'll  get  out  and  half  murder  them  !  only  hook  'em  this 
way  ! — I'll  wring  their  precious  necks  otf !" 

"  They're  out  of  my  reach,"  cried  Plumplee.  "  Hish  ! 
hish  !"  Finding,  however,  that  harsh  terms  had  no  effect, 
he  had  recourse  to  the  milder  and  more  persuasive  cry 
of  "Pussy,  pussy,  pussy,  pussy  ;  kit,  kit,  kit!" 

"  Hi.sh !  you  devils  !"  cried  Mr.  Jonas  Beagle,  who  be- 
gan to  be  really  enraged. 

"  Kitty,  kitty,  kitty,  kitty  ! — puss,  puss,  puss  !"  repeat- 
ed Mr.  Plumplee,  in  the  blandest  and  most  seductive 
tones,  as  he  held  the  pistol  by  the  muzzle  to  break  the 
back  or  to  knock  out  the  brains  of  the  first  unfortunate 
cat  that  made  her  appearance  ;  but  all  this  persuasion  to 
come  forth  had  no  effect ;  they  were  still  invisible,  while 
the  mewing  proceeded  in  the  most  melancholy  strain. 

"What  on  earth  are  we  to  do?"  irmuired  Plumplee; 
"  I  myself  have  a  hornjr  cjf  cats." 


146  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  The  same  to  me,  and  many  of  'em !"  observed  Mr. 
Beagle.  "  Let's  wake  that  young  fellow,  perhaps  he 
don't  mind  them." 

"Hallo!"  cried  Plumplee. 

"  Hallo !"  shouted  Beagle ;  but  as  neither  could  make 
any  impression  upon  Valentine,  and  as  both  were  afraid 
to  get  off  the  bed  to  shake  him,  they  proceeded  to  roll 
up  the  blankets  and  sheets  into  balls,  and  to  pelt  him 
with  infinite  zeal. 

"  Who's  there  ?  What's  the  matter  ?"  cried  Valentine 
at  length,  in  the  coolest  tone  imaginable,  although  his 
exertions  had  made  him  sw^eat  like  a  tinker. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said 
Plumplee,  "  do  assist  us  in  turning  these  cats  out." 

"  Cats  !     Where  are  they  ?     Hish  !"  cried  Valentine. 

"  Oh,  that's  of  no  use,  I've  tried  the  hishing  business 
myself.  All  the  hishing  in  the  world  won't  do.  They 
must  be  beaten  out ;  you're  not  afraid  of  them,  are  you  ?" 

"Afraid  of  them, — afraid  of  a  few  cats!"  exclaimed 
Valentine,  with  the  assumption  of  some  considerable 
magnanimity.     "  Where  are  they  ?" 

"  Under  my  bed,"  replied  Beagle.  "  There's  a  brave 
fellow  !  Break  their  blessed  necks  !"  Valentine  leaped 
out  of  bed,  and,  after  striking  at  the  imaginary  animals 
very  furiously  with  the  bolster,  he  hissed  with  great  vio- 
lence, and  scratched  across  the  grain  of  the  boards  iu 
humble  imitation  of  those  domestic  creatures  scampering 
out  of  a  room,  when  he  rushed  to  the  door,  and  proceeded 
to  make  a  very  forlorn  meyowing  die  gradually  away  at 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  they  are  all  gone  at  last !"  said  Mr. 
Beagle.  "  We  shall  be  able  to  get  a  little  rest,  now,  I 
suppose;"  and  after  surveying  every  corner  of  the  room 
in  which  it  was  possible  for  one  of  them  to  have  lingered, 
he  lighted  his  candle  and  bade  Plumplee  good-night. 

As  soon  as  Plumplee  had  departed,  Valentine  assisted 
Beagle  to  re-make  his  bed.     The  light  was  again  extiu- 


NUMBER    SIX.  147 

guislicd,  and  ]Mr.  Beagle  very  naturally  made  up  his 
mind  to  have  a  six  hours'  sound  and  uninterrupted 
sleep.  He  had,  hoAvever,  scarcely  closed  his  eyes,  when 
the  mewing  was  renewed,  and  as  he  had  not  even  the 
smallest  disposition  to  "  listen  to  the  sounds  so  familiar 
to  his  ear,"  he  started  up  at  once  and  exclaimed,  "  I  wish 
I  may  die  if  they're  all  out  now!  Here's  one  of  them 
left !"  added  he,  addressing  Valentine ;  but  Valentine, 
having  taken  a  deep  inspiration,  answered  only  with  a 
prolonged  gurgling  sound.  "  He's  off  again,  by  the  liv- 
ing Jove!"  continued  Beagle.  "I  never  heard  of  any 
one  sleeping  so  soundly.  Hallo  !  my  good  fellow  !  ho ! 
Fast  as  a  four-year-old  !  Won't  you  be  quiet,  you  xoitch  f 
Are  you  determined  not  to  let  me  have  a  wink  of  sleep 
to-night  ?  She  must  be  in  the  cupboard.  I  nuist  have 
overlooked  her  ;  and  yet  I  don't  see  how  I  could.  Oh, 
keep  the  thing  up.  dear !  Don't  let  me  rest !"  and  he 
fumbled  about  for  his  box,  and,  having  taken  a  hearty 
pinch  of  snuff,  began  to  turn  the  thing  seriously  over  in 
his  mind,  and  to  make  a  second  person  of  himself,  by  way 
of  having,  under  the  circumstances,  a  companion  with 
whom  he  could  advise  and,  if  necessary,  remonstrate. 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done,  now?"  inquired  he  of  the 
second  person  thus  established.  "  What's  to  be  the  next 
step,  Jonas?  It's  of  no  use  at  all,  you  know!  we  can't 
go  to  sleep ;  we  may  just  as  well  try  to  get  a  kick  at  the 
moon!  nor  must  we  again  disturb — Hish  I  you — Jonas! 
Jonas!  keep  your  temper,  my  boy,  keep  your  temper! 
Don't  let  a  contemptible  cat  put  you  out !"  and  Mr.  Bea- 
gle took  another  pinch  of  snuff,  from  which  he  appar- 
ently derived  a  great  degree  of  consolation.  "  What ! 
at  it  again?"  he  continued.  "I  wish  I  had  the  wringing 
of  your  neck,  madam  !  You  want  to  put  me  in  a  pas- 
sion ;  but  you  won't,  you  can't  do  it!  Therefore,  don't 
lay  that  flattcTJ'ng  unction  to  your  soul !  Well,  Jonas, 
how  are  we  to  act?  Shall  we  sit  here  all  night,  or  take 
up  our  bed  and  walk  ?" 


148  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Jonas  was  so  struck  with  tlie  expediency  of  the  latter 
course,  that  he  apparently  urged  its  immediate  adoption; 
for  Mr.  Beagle,  in  the  first  place,  half  dressed  himself  in 
bed,  and  in  the  next,  threw  the  countei-pane,  a  blanket, 
and  a  sheet  over  his  shoulder,  and,  tucking  a  pillow  and 
a  bolster  under  his  arm,  said,  "  We'll  leave  you  to  your 
own  conscience,  madam  !  Good-night !"  and  left  the 
room  with  the  view  of  seeking  repose  upon  the  sofa. 


HOW'S  MY  BOY?— Sydney  Dobell. 

"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How's  my  boy — my  boy  ?" 

"  What's  your  boy's  name,  fronrl  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  V" 

"  My  boy  John, 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

Wliat  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor? 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

"  You  come  back  from  sea. 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know 
I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 
Blue  jacket  or  no. 
Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor. 
Anchor  and  crown  or  no ! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  'Jolly  Briton' " 

"Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low!" 

"And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 
If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud, 
I'd  sing  him  over  the  town ! 
Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor?" 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 


NUMBER    SIX.  VS 


"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I  was  never  aboard  her? 

Be  she  afloat,  or  be  she  ajrround, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  bo  bound 

Her  owners  can  aflbrd  her ! 

I  say,  how's  my  John?" 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other! 
Uow's  my  boy— my  boy  ?" 


I  SUE  FOR  DAMAGES. 

Now,  lawyer,  I'll  tell  you  my  story — you'll  have  to  be  patient 

with  me, 
I  never  went  to  law  before,  and  it  makes  me  nervous,  you  see ; 
For  it  does  not  seem  a  woman's  place,  and  many  a  time  I've 

said 
That  nothing  would  ever  take  me  to  court, — I'd  suffer  wrong 

instead. 

Not  for  myself  do  I  come  here  now ;  Jcould  suffer  on,  alone,— 
I  come  for  my  fatherless  children,  helpless  and  starving  at 

home; 
Starving,  because  their  father  for  liquor  sold  his  life. 
Thank  God  for  the  Adair  Liquor  Law !   the  friend  of  the 

drunkard's  wife. 

These  terrible,  last  few  years  seem  just  like  a  dream  to  me, 
And  I  almost  think  I'll  wake  and  find  our  home  as  it  used 

to  be, — 
My  husband    happy  and   loving,  our  children  merry  and 

bright, 
And  noio, — oh,  what  is  the  good  of  the  law,  if  our  wrongs  it 

does  not  right  ? 

Little  by  little  the  demon  crept  into  this  home  of  ours — 
Oh,  sir!  uj)on  your  knees  thank  God,  if  you  never  full  its 
powers; 


150  ONE    IIUNDUED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

If  you  never  saw  a  loved  one  drawn,  as  if  by  a  fatal  spell, 
Till  day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  were  spent  in  a 
drinking  hell. 

I  cannot  tell  my  anguisli  as  those  days  and  nights  passed  by  ; 
I  know  'tis  the  hardest  part  of  life  to  see  one'.,  husband  die; 
But  to  see  him  in  a  drunkard's  death !  all  other  deaths  seem 

light;— 
I  wish  a  few  of  our  landlords  could  have  stood  by  him  that 

night. 

Men  in  the  best  society,  who  blocks  of  property  own, 
Who  once  had  hearts  of  flesh",  which  money  has  turned  to 

stone ; 
Men  wh  0  own  their  pews  in  church— perhaps,  i  f  they  could  be 
At  one  of  the  deaths  they  help  to  make,  their  eyes  would 

open  and  see; 

Men  who  roll  in  money  from  the  rents  which  they  receive, 
Taken  from  starving  families— O  sir !  I  surely  believe 
That  God,  in  righteous  judgment,  hating  oppression  and 

wrong. 
Is  releasing  us  from  their  bondage,— this  slavery  borne  so 

long. 

And  to-day,  in  the  name  of  my  children  who  are  starving,  I 

come  t©.  you. 
That  you  may  sue  for  the  money  that  to  them  is  justly  due  ; 
I  come  in  the  name  of  the  happy  home  that  millions  could 

not  restore ; 
I  come  in  a  murdered  husband's  name  —oh,  what  can  I  say 

more ! 

I  come  in  the  name  of  a  broken  heart,  that  money  can  never 

heal ; 
I  come  in  the  name  of  a  righteous  God,  from  whom  there  is 

no  appeal ; 
In  the  name  of  all  that  was  dear  in  life ;  bitter  though  I 

may  be, 
Sue  these  property  owners  for  the  thousands  they  owe  to  me. 

I  know  there  are  some  of  our  rich  men  who  think  this  law 

is  wrong, 
Who  are  trying  to  have  it  "  modified,"  and  plenty  will  help 

them  along. 
What  to  them  is  a  drunkard's  life,  if  his  money  has  helped 

to  pay 
The  rents  which  they  and  their  families  spend  in  pleasure 
,  every  day ! 


NUMBER    SIX.  151 

Lawyer,  I'll  not  detain  you — this  story  is  old  to  you, 

I'll  leave  my  cause  in  your  hands,  sir,  please  see  what  you 

can  do. 
And  I'll  pay  you  what  I  can,  and  will  bless  you  all  the  same, 
If  you  fail  after  doing  your  best  to  win, — in  my  little  chil- 
dren's name.  _qj^^^  g^^^^  Journal 


EULOGY  ON  LAFAYETTE.— Charles  Sprague. 

While  we  bring  our  offerings  for  the  mighty  of  our 
own  land,  shall  we  not  remember  the  chivalrous  spirits 
of  other  shores,  who  shared  with  them  the  hour  of  weak- 
ness and  woe !  Pile  to  the  clouds  the  majestic  column 
of  glory  ;  let  the  lips  of  those  who  can  speak  well,  hallow 
each  spot  where  the  bones  of  your  bold  repose ;  but  for- 
get not  those  who,  with  your  bold,  went  out  to  battle ! 

Among  these  men  of  noble  daring,  there  was  one,  a 
young  and  gallant  stranger,  who  left  the  blushing  vine- 
hills  of  his  delightful  France.  The  people  whom  lie 
came  to  succor  were  not  his  people ;  he  knew  them  only 
in  the  melancholy  story  of  their  wrongs.  He  was  no 
mercenary  wretch,  striving  for  the  spoil  of  the  van- 
quished ;  the  palace  acknowledged  him  for  its  lord,  and 
the  valleys  yielded  him  their  increase.  He  was  no  name- 
less man,  staking  life  for  reputation  ;  he  ranked  among 
nobles,  and  looked  unawed  upon  kings.  He  was  no 
friendless  outcast,  seeking  for  a  grave  to  hide  his  cold 
heart ;  he  was  girdled  by  the  companions  of  his  childhood ; 
his  kinsmen  were  about  him  ;  his  wife  was  before  him. 

Yet  from  all  these  he  turned  away  and  came.  Like  a 
lofty  tree,  that  shakes  down  its  green  glories  to  battle 
with  the  winter's  storm,  he  flung  aside  the  trappings  of 
place  and  pride  to  crusade  for  Freedom,  in  Freedom's 
holy  land.  He  came;  but  not  in  the  day  of  successful 
rebellion  ;  not  when  the  new-risen  sun  of  Independence 
had  burst  the  cloud  of  time,  and  careered  to  its  place  in 
the  heavens.  He  came  when  darkness  curtained  the 
hills,  and  the  tempest  was  abroad  in  its  auger;  when  the 


152  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

plough  stood  still  in  the  field  of  promise,  and  briers  cum- 
bered the  garden  of  beauty ;  when  fathers  were  dying, 
and  mothers  were  weeping  over  them ;  when  the  wife 
was  binding  up  the  gashed  bosom  of  her  husband,  and 
the  maiden  was  wiping  the  death-damp  from  the  brow 
of  her  lover.  He  came  when  the  brave  began  to  fear  the 
power  of  man,  and  the  pious  to  doubt  the  favor  of  God. 

It  was  then  that  this  one  joined  the  ranks  of  a  revolted 
people.  Freedom's  little  phalanx  bade  him  a  grateful 
welcome.  With  them  he  courted  the  battle's  rage  ;  with 
theirs,  his  arm  was  lifted  ;  with  theirs,  his  blood  was  shed. 
Long  and  doubtful  was  the  conflict.  At  length,  kind 
Heaven  smiled  on  the  good  cause,  and  the  beaten  in- 
vaders fled.  The  profane  were  driven  from  the  temple 
of  Liberty,  and,  at  her  pure  shrine,  the  pilgrim  warrior, 
with  his  adored  commander,  knelt  and  worshipped. 
Leaving  there  his  offering,  the  incense  of  an  uncorrupted 
spirit,  he  at  length  arose,  and,  crowned  with  benedictions, 
turned  his  happy  feet  toward  his  long-deserted  home. 

After  nearly  fifty  years,  that  one  has  come  again.  Can 
mortal  tongue  tell,  can  mortal  heart  feel  the  sublimity 
of  that  coming?  Exulting  millions  rejoice  in  it;  and 
the  long,  loud,  transporting  shout,  like  the  mingling  of 
many  winds,  rolls  on,  undying,  to  Freedom's  furthest 
mountains.  A  congregated  nation  comes  around  him. 
Old  men  bless  him  and  children  reverence  him.  The 
lovely  come  out  to  look  upon  him ;  the  learned  deck 
their  halls  to  greet  him  ;  the  rulers  of  the  land  rise  up 
to  do  him  homage.  How  his  full  heart  labors !  He 
views  the  rusting  trophies  of  departed  days ;  he  treads 
upon  the  high  places  where  his  brethren  moulder ;  he 
bends  before  the  tomb  of  his  father  ;  his  words  are  tears, 
the  speech  of  sad  remembrance.  But  he  looks  around 
upon  a  ransomed  land  and  a  joyous  race  ;  he  beholds  the 
blessings,  those  trophies  secured,  for  which  those  brethren 
died,  for  which  that  father  lived  ;  and  again  his  words 
are  tears,  the  eloquence  of  gratitude  and  joy. 


NUMBER    SIX.  153 

Spread  forth  creation  like  a  map ;  bid  earth's  desid 
multitude  revive  ;  and  of  all  the  pageants  that  ever  glit- 
tered to  the  sun,  when  looked  his  burning  eye  on  a  sight 
like  this !  Of  all  the  myriads  that  have  come  and  gone, 
what  cherished  minion  ever  ruled  an  hour  like  this  ? 
Many  have  struck  the  redeeming  blow  for  their  own 
freedom ;  but  who,  like  this  man,  has  bared  his  bosom 
in  the  cause  of  strangers  ?  Others  have  lived  in  the  love 
of  their  own  people ;  but  who,  like  this  man,  has  drunk 
his  sweetest  cup  of  welcome  with  another?  Matchless 
chief!  Of  glory's  immortal  tablets,  there  is  one  for  him, 
for  him  alone !  Oblivion  shall  never  ghroud  its  splendor ; 
the  everlasting  flame  of  liberty  shall  guard  it  that  the 
generations  of  men  may  repeat  the  name  recorded  there, 
the  beloved  name  of  Lafayette. 


HOW  TERRY  SAVED  HIS  BACON. 

Early  one  fine  morning,  as  Terence  O'Fleary  was  hard 
at  work  in  his  potato-garden,  he  was  accosted  by  his  gos- 
sip, Mick  Casey,  who  he  perceived  had  his  Sunday 
clothes  on. 

"Ah !  Terry,  man,  what  would  you  be  afther  doing 
there  wid  them  praties,  an'  Phelim  O'Loughlin's  berrin' 
goin'  to  take  place  ?  Come  along,  ma  bochel !  sure  the 
praties  will  wait." 

"  Och  !  no,"  says  Terry  ;  "  I  nuist  dig  on  this  ridge  for 
the  childers'  breakfast ;  an'  thin  I'm  goin'  to  confessicm 
to  Father  O'Higgins,  who  holds  a  stashin  beyant  there 
at  his  own  house." 

"  Bother  take  the  stashin  !"  says  Mick  ;  "  Sure  that  'ud 
wait  too." 

But  Terence  was  not  to  be  })ersuaded.  Away  went 
Mick  to  the  berrin' ;  and  Terence,  having  finished  "wid 
the  praties,"  as  he  said,  went  down  to  Father  O'Higgins, 
where  he  was  shown  into  tlie  kitchen  to  wait  his  turn  for 
confession.     He  had  not  been  long  standing  there  before 

7» 


154  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

the  kitchen  fire,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
nice  piece  of  biicou  which  hung  in  the  chimney-corner. 
Terry  looked  at  it  again  and  again,  and  wished  tlie 
"  childer  had  it  home  wid  the  praties." 

"  Murther  alive !"  says  he,  "  will  I  take  it  ?  Shure  the 
priest  can  spare  it ;  an'  it  would  be  a  rare  thrate  to  Judy 
an'  the  gossoons  at  home,  to  say  nothin'  iv  myself,  who 
hasn't  tasted  the  likes  this  many's  the  day."  Terry 
looked  at  it  again,  and  then  turned  away,  saying,  "  I 
won't  take  it :  why  would  I,  an'  it  not  mine,  but  the 
priests  ?  an'  I'd  have  the  sin  iv  it,  shure  !  I  won't  take 
it,"  replied  he  ;  "  an'  it's  nothin'  but  the  Ould  Boy  himself 
that's  timptin'  me.  But  shure  it's  no  harm  to  feel  it,  any 
way."  said  he,  taking  it  into  his  hand,  and  looking 
earnestly  at  it !  "  Och  !  it's  a  beauty  ;  and  why  wouldn't 
I  carry  it  home  to  Judy  and  the  childer  ?  An'  shure  it 
won't  be  a  sin  afther  I  confesses  it." 

Well,  into  his  great-coat  pocket  he  thrubt  it ;  and  he 
had  scarcely  done  so,  when  the  maid  came  in  and  told 
him  that  it  was  his  turn  for  confession. 

"  Murther  alive !  I'm  kilt  and  ruined,  horse  and  foot. 
What'll  I  do  in  this  quandary,  at  all,  at  all?  I  must 
thry  an'  make  the  best  of  it,  anyhow,"  says  he  to  himself, 
and  in  he  went. 

He  knelt  to  the  priest,  told  his  sins,  and  was  about  to 
receive  absolution,  when  all  at  once  he  seemed  to  recol- 
lect himself,  and  cried  out : 

"  Oh  !  sthop,  sthop,  Father  O'Higgins,  dear !  for  good- 
ness' sake,  sthop !  I  have  one  great  big  sin  to  tell  yit ; 
only,  sur,  I'm  frightened  to  tell  it,  in  the  regard  of  niver 
having  done  the  like  afore,  sur,  niver !" 

"  Come !"  said  Father  O'Higgins,  "  you  must  tell  it 
to  me." 

"  Why,  then,  your  riverince,  I  will  tell  it;  but,  sur, 
I'm  ashamed  like." 

"  Oh !  never  mind :  tell  it,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Why,  then,  your  riverince,  I  went  out  one  day  to  a 
gintleman's  house,  upon  a  little  bit  of  business ;  an'  he 


NUMBER    SIX.  155 

bein'  ingaged,  I  was  showed  into  the  kitchen  to  wait. 
Well,  sur,  there  I  saw  a  beautil'ul  bit  iv  bacon  hangin' 
in  the  chimbly-corner.  I  looked  at  it,  your  riverince, 
an'  my  teeth  began  to  wather.  I  dcm't  know  how  it  was, 
but  I  suppose  the  divil  timpted  me,  for  I  put  it  into  my 
pocket ;  but,  if  you  plaze,  sur,  I'll  give  it  to  you  ;"  and 
he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"  Give  it  to  me  !"  said  Father  O'Higgins.  "  No,  cer- 
tainly not :  give  it  back  to  the  owner  of  it." 

"  Why,  then,  your  riverince,  sur,  I  offered  it  to  him, 
and  he  wouldn't  take  it." 

^  "Oh!  he  wouldn't,  wouldn't  he?"  said  the  priest: 
'*  then  take  it  home,  and  eat  it  yourself,  with  your  family." 

"  Thank  your  riverince  kindly !"  says  Terence,  "  an' 
I'll  do  that  same  immediately ;  but  first  and  foremost, 
I'll  have  the  absolution,  if  you  plaze,  sur." 

Terence  received  absolution,  and  went  home  rejoicing 
that  he  had  been  able  to  save  his  soul  and  his  bacon  at 
the  same  time. 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE.— GiiORGK  Arnold, 

'Twas  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

Tall  and  slender,  and  sallow  and  dry ; 
His  form  was  bent,  and  his  gait  was  slow. 
His  long,  thin  hair  was  as  white  as  snow ; 

But  a  wonderful  twinkle  shone  in  his  eye. 
And  hu  sang  every  night  as  he  went  to  bed, 

"Let  us  be  happj'  down  here  below  ; 
The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  taught  his  scholars  the  rule  of  three, 

AVriting,  and  reading,  and  history  too, 
Taking  the  little  ones  on  his  knee, 
For  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he. 

And  the  wants  of  the  smallest  child  ho  knew: 
■'L<'arn  while  you're  young,"  he  often  said, 

"There  is  much  to  enjoy  down  here  below; 
Life  for  the  living,  an<l  rest  for  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 


156  ONE    nUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

With  stupidest  boys,  he  was  kind  and  cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones ; 
The  rod  was  scarcely  known  in  his  school ; 
Whipping,  to  him,  was  a  barbarous  rule. 

And  too  hard  work  fur  his  poor  old  bones ; 
"  Besides,  it  was  painful," — he  sometimes  said, 

"  We  shoukl  make  life  pleasant  hei'e  below, 
The  living  need  charity  more  than  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 

With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door; 
His  rooms  were  quiet  and  neat  and  plain. 
But  a  spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign. 

And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and  poor. 
"I  need  so  little,"  he  often  said, 

"And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  below 
Won't  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

But  the  most  pleasant  times  that  he  had,  of  all, 

Were  the  sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass, 
With  his  chair  tipped  back  to  a  neighbor's  wall, 
Making  an  unceremonious  call. 

Over  a  pipe  and  a  friendly  glass  ; 
"This  was  the  sweetest  jjleasure,"  he  said, 

"  Of  the  many  I  share  in  here  below ; 
Who  has  no  cronies,  had  better  be  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

The  jolly  old  ^pedagogue's  wrinkled  face 

Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  sjniles; 
He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school  grace, 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace. 

Till  the  house  grew  merry  from  cellar  to  tilea. 
"  I'm  a  pretty  old  man," — he  gently  said, 

"I've  lingered  a  long  while  here  below, 
But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  be  lied  !" 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  smoked  his  pipe,  in  the  balmy  air. 
Every  night  when  the  sun  went  down, 

Wliile  the  soft  wind  played  in  his  silvery  hair, 
^    Leaving  its  tenderest  kisses  there 

On  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  jolly  old  crown ; 

And,  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled  and  said, 
"  'Tis  a  glorious  world  down  here  below ; 


NUMBKR    SIX.  157 

Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  dead  ?" 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  sat  at  his  door  one  midsummer  night, 

After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west, 
And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and  bright, 

While  the  odorous  night-wind  whispered  "Rest!" 
Gently,  gently  he  bowed  his  head. 

There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  I  know, — 
He  ^^•as  sure  of  happiness,  living  or  dead. 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 


UNCLE  JO. 

I  have  in  memory  a  little  story, 

That  few  indeed  would  rhyme  about  but  me ; 
'Tis  not  of  love,  nor  fame,  nor  yet  of  glory. 

Although  a  little  colored  with  the  three — 
In  very  truth,  I  think  as  much,  perchance. 
As  most  tales  disembodied  from  romance. 

Jo  lived  about  the  village,  and  was  neighbor 
To  every  one  who  had  hard  work  to  do; 

If  he  possessed  a  genius,  'twas  for  labor 

^lost  people  thought,  but  there  was  one  or  two 

Who  sometimes  said,  when  he  arose  to  go, 

"  Come  in  again  and  see  us,  Uncle  Jo !" 

The  "  Uncle  "  was  a  courtesy  they  gave — 
And  felt  they  could  afford  to  give  to  him, 

Just  as  the  master  makes  of  some  good  slave 
An  "Aunt  Jemima,"  or  an  "  Uncle  Jim ;" 

And  of  this  dubious  kindness  Jo  was  glad — 

Poor  fellow,  it  was  all  he  ever  had ! 

A  mile  or  so  away  he  had  a  brother, — 

A  rich,  j)roud  man,  that  people  didn't  hire ; 

But  Jo  had  neither  sister,  wife  iior  mother, 
Ami  Ijaked  his  corn-cake,  at  his  cabin  lire, 

After  the  day's  work,  hard  for  you  and  me, 

But  he  was  never  tired — how  could  he  be? 

They  called  him  dull,  but  he  had  eyes  of  quickness 
For  (>very])ody   that  Ik;  could  befriend  ; 

Said  one  and  all,  "How  kind  he  is  in  sickness," 
But  there,  of  course,  his  goodness  had  an  end. 


158  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Another  praise  there  was,  might  have  been  given, 
For,  one  or  more  days  out  of  every  seven, 

With  his  old  pickaxe  swung  across  his  shoulder. 
And  downcast  eyes,  and  slow  and  sober  tread. 

He  sought  the  place  of  graves,  and  each  beholder 
Wondered  and  asked  each  other,  who  was  dead  ? 

But  when  he  digged  all  day,  nobody  thought 

That  he  had  done  a  whit  more  than  he  ought. 

At  length,  one  winter  when  the  sunbeams  slanted 
Faintly  and  cold  across  the  church-yard  snow, 

The  bell  tolled  out — alas  !  a  grave  was  wanted, 
And  all  looked  anxiously  for  Uncle  Jo  ; 

His  spade  stood  there,  against  his  own  roof-tree, 

There  was  his  pickaxe,  too,  but  where  was  he  ? 

They  called  and  called  again,  but  no  replying ; 

Smooth  at  the  window,  and  about  the  doo:^ 
The  snow  in  cold  and  heav}-  drifts  was  lying — 

He  didn't  need  the  daylight  any  more. 
One  shook  him  roughly,  and  another  said, 
"As  true  as  preaching.  Uncle  Jo  is  dead  !" 

And  when  they  wrapped  him  in  the  linen,  fairer 
And  finer,  too,  than  he  had  worn  till  then. 

They  found  a  picture — haply  of  the  sharer 
Of  sunny  hope,  sometime :  or  where  or  when, 

They  did  not  care  to  know,  but  closed  his  eyes, — 

And  placed  it  in  the  cofHn  where  he  lies  ! 

None  wrote  his  epitaph,  nor  saw  the  beauty 
Of  the  pure  love  that  reached  into  the  grave. 

Nor  how,  in  unobtrusive  ways  of  duty 

He  kept,  desjntc  the  durJ: ;  ])ut  men  less  brave 

Have  left  great  names,  while  not  a  willow  bends 

Above  his  dust — poor  Jo,  he  had  no  friends  ! 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES.— Phebe  Gary. 

Tlie  following  poem  is  the  last  one  sent  by  Phebe  Cary  to  Harper's  Bazar. 
The  Bazar  siiys :  "It  is  the  song  of  the  dying  swan,  tender,  and  sweet,  and 
beautiful." 

0  Rosamond,  thou  fair  and  good, 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 
Thou  royal  rose  of  June ! 


NUMBER    SIX. 

"Why  didst  thou  drooi)  before  thy  time? 
"Why  wither  in  the  tirst  sweet  prime? 
Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon? 

For,  loolving  backward  tlirough  my  tears 
On  thee,  and  on  my  wasted  years, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say, 
If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide, 
Or  thou  hadst  Uved  and  I  had  died, 

'Twere  better  far  to-day. 

O  child  of  light,  O  golden  head!— 
Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way — 
Wliy  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight? 
Could  they  not  spare  thy  little  light 

From  heaven's  unclouded  day  ? 

O  friend  so  true,  0  friend  so  good ! — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms — 
"What  had  I  done,  or  what  hadst  thou. 
That,  through  this  lonesome  world  till  now, 

AVe  walk  with  empty  arms? 

And  yet  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
"With  all  it  loved  and  coveted, 

Had  life  been  always  fair, 
"Would  these  dear  dreams  that  ne'er  depart, 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place. 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas! 
Could  I  have  learned  that  clear,  calm  faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death. 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be  ; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 
That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled. 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
llav(!  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain, 
Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb; 


159 


IGO  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evermore, 
And  wait  for  us  to  come. 

And  wlien  on  that  last  day  we  rise, 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies, 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and  death, 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward. 


DREAM  OF  THE  "FAT  CONTRIBUTOR." 
A.  Miner  Griswold. 

I  had  a  singular  dream  last  night.  "  I  Dreamt  I  Dwelt 
in  Marble  Halls,"  and  that  those  halls  were  thronged  with 
characters  whose  names  are  familiar  in  song.  The  en- 
tertainment was  given  by  the  "  Old  Folks  at  Home,"  who 
had  invited  a  goodly  number  of  the  friends  of  "Auld  Lang 
Syne,"  as  well  as  distinguished  strangers  from  abroad. 

"  Rory  O'More  "  was  easily  distinguished  by  his  jolly, 
good-hatured  face,  and  his  manner  of  "  taziug  "  the  girls. 
He  was  shortly  joined  by  a  fair-haired,  ruddy-cheeked 
youth,  who,  in  reply  to  a  question  from  the  master  of 
ceremonies — he  had  entered  somewhat  un-(master  of) 
ceremoniously — replied,  proudly  : 

"Ould  Ireland  is  me  country,  and 
Me  name  is  Pat  Malloy." 

Pat  and  Rory  then  proceeded  to  the  "  Irishman's 
Shanty,"  there  being  "  Whisky  in  the  Jug." 

I  knew  "  Old  Uncle  Ned,"  as  soon  as  I  saw  him  scratch 
his  bald  head  with  his  cane-brake  fingers,  and  as  he  smiled, 
his  toothless  gums,  wholly  inadequate  for  the  hoe-cake, 
confirmed  my  previous  impression.  The  spruce  darkey 
who  followed  him,  ogling  "  Lucy  Long  "  through  an  eye- 
glass, could  be  no  other  than  "  Dandy  Jim,  of  Caroline." 

The  "  Bould  Soger  Boy"  came  strutting  along,  brand- 
ishing "  The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill,"  in  an  audacious 
manner ;   and  "  The  Minstrel  Returned  from  the  War  " 


NUMBER    SIX.  161 

followed  after,  sweeping  the  melancholy  strings  of  "  The 
Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls,"  the  soul  of  music 
under  a  shed,  or  words  to  that  effect. 

"  Old  Dog  Tray,"  barking  fiercely  at  the  door,  pro- 
claimed that  "  Somebody's  Coming,"  and  in  marched 
"  Yankee  Doodle  "  wrapped  in  "  The  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner," and  leading  by  the  hand  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden, 
known  as  "  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean."  A  noble- 
looking,  well-preserved  old  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Co- 
lumbia, who,  on  account  of  his  hale  and  hearty  appearance, 
was  called  ''Hale  Columbia,"  followed  Mr.  Doodle,  and 
kept  a  bright  eye  upon  the  young  woman,  who  was  doubt- 
less a  relation  of  his,  on  her  father  and  mother's  side. 

A  spacious  walk  back  of  the  mansion,  paved  with 
"  Shells  of  Ocean,"  led  to 

"Tho  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea, 
The  broad,  the  blue,  the  ever  free," 

and  on  the  beach  stood  "A  Dark  Girl  Dressed  in  Blue,'' 
wringing  her  hands  in  a  frantic  manner,  and  crying 
wildly  because  "  Jamie's  on  the  S-t-o-r-my  Sea."  As  she 
afterwards  got  into  the  "  Gum  Tree  Canoe  "  and  signified 
her  intention  to  cross  "  Over  the  AVater  to  Charlie,"  I 
concluded  that  she  couldn't  be  much  of  a  gentleman. 

My  attention  was  here  directed  to  a  young  man  who 
was  on  his  knees  before  a  piratical-looking  chap,  who 
was  about  to  pitch  him  into  the  sea  from  a  lofty  cliff. 
The  young  man  pleaded — "  Bury  me  not  in  the  deep, 
deep  sea,"  to  which  the  j)iratical  chap  chanted  hoarsely 
"  My  name  is  Captain  Kidd,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed," — 
wholly  neglecting  to  state  what  his  name  was  when  he 
wasn't  sailing, — and  pitched  him  in.  "  Captain  Kidd,"  it 
will  be  remembered,  acf|uired  some  notoriety  for  taking 
"A  J-iife  on  the  Ocean  Wave."  'Tis  said  he  took  life  re- 
markably easy. 

A  poor  Swiss  girl  was  crying — "  Take  me  back  to 
Switzerland,"  and  "  Gaffer  Green,"  standing  by,  remarked 
to  his  particular  friend,  "  Kol»in  Kuff,"  that  he  would  take 
her  back,  besidca  doing  a  variety  of  other  charitable  things 


162  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

— "If  I  had  but  a  thousand  a  year."  Robin  wiped  away 
a  tear  and  said  it  was  rnjf.  That  he  hadn't  a  thousand  a 
year  must  have  been  "  Wearin'  of  the  (Gafi^jr)  Green." 

As  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  mansion,  fearing  that 
they  would  "  Miss  Me  at  Home,"  I  was  met  by  a  female 
who  began,  "I'd  offer  thee  this  hand  of  mine,"  but  I 
interrupted  her  by  saying — "I'm  o'er  young  to  marry 
yet,"  and  slipped  away,  quite  unmindful  of  her  request 
to  "  Meet  Me  by  Moonlight  Alone." 

Arrived  at  "  The  halls,  the  halls  of  dazzling  light,"  I 
found  "Old  Dan  Tucker,"  too  late,  as  usual,  for  his 
evening  meal,  relating  his  escape  from  parties  who,  as 
he  said,  were  trying  to  "  Carry  Me  back  to  Old  Virginia," 
in  utter  defiance  of  the  Freedmen's  Bureau.  He  gave 
them  the  slip  at  the  "  Camptown  Races,"  where  "  He  Har- 
nessed up  the  Mules,"  to  "  The  Low-Backed  Car,"  and 
made  his  escape  from  "  Way  down  South  in  Dixie."  Dan 
wore  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  (or  slimmer  before 
last,)  in  his  button-hole,  and  created  quite  a  sensation  as 
he  went  "  marching  on." 

A  hall  was  cleared  for  the  pleasures  of  the  dance,  and 
when  music  arose  from  several  voluptuous  swelh  in  the 
orchestra,  soft  eyes  looked  love  to  softer  heads  which 
spake  again,  and  all  went  merry  as  a  married  belle. 
One  man  of  melancholy  aspect  and  seedy  appearance, 
seated  in  an  obscure  corner,  was  invited  to  join,  but  he 
said  he  couldn't— he  was  "Hard  up!"  He  was  after- 
ward found  cutting  it  gay  in  an  Irish  jig,  at  "  Finnegan's 
Wake,"  and  singing,  "  Oh,  ain't  I  Hun-ki-do-ri." 

During  a  lull  in  the  dance,  "  Ben  Bolt "  amused  the 
company  with  "  The  Sailor's  Hornpipe,"  which  he  ex- 
ecuted in  fine  style. 

The  company  broke  up  in  the  "  Wee  sma'  hours,"  and 
as  they  sought  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  oft  in  that  s(t)illy 
night  would  I  hear  their  songs.  While  a  number  of 
jolly  fellows  a  "  Comin'  through  the  Rye "  (put  up  in 
quart  bottles),  were  singing,  "  We  won't  go  home  till 
morning," — 1  aicoke. 


NUMBER    SIX. 


163 


PLATONIC— William- B.  Terrett. 

I  had  sworn  Jo  be  a  bachelor,  she  had  sworn  to  be  a  maid, 
For  we  quite'  agreed  in  doubting  whether  matrimony  paid  ; 
Besides  we  had  our  higher  loves,  fair  science  ruled  my  heart ; 
And  she  said  her  young  atlections  were  all  wound  up  in  cui. 

So  we  laughed  at  those  wise  men,  who  say  that  friendship 

can  not  live 
'Twixt  man  and  woman,  unless  each  has  something  more  to 

give  ; 
We  would  be  friends,  and  friends  as  true  as  e'er  were  man 

and  man — 
I'd  be  a  second  David,  and  she  Miss  Jonathan. 

AVe  scorned  all  sentimental  trash, — vows,  kisses,  tears  and 

sighs ; 
High  frien<lship,  such  as  ours,  might  well  such  childish  arts 

despise ; 
We  liked  each  other,  that  was  all,  quite  all  there  was  to  say, 
So  we  just  shook  hands  ui>on  it,  in  a  business  sort  of  way. 

We  shared  our  secrets  and  our  joys,  together  hoped  and 

feared. 
With  common  pui'pose,  sought  the  goal  that  young  ambition 

reared  ; 
We  dreamed  together  of  the  days,  the  dream-bright  days  to 

come ; 
We  were  strictly  confidential,  and  we  called  each  other 

"chum." 

And  many  a  day  we  wandered  together  o'er  the  hills, 
I  seeking  bugs  and  buttertiies,  and  she,  the  ruined  mills 
And  rustic  l)ri(lges  and  the  like,  that  jiicturc-makers  prize 
To  run  in  with  their  waterfalls,  and  groves,  and  summer 
skies. 

And  many  a  quiet  evening,  in  hours  of  silent  ease, 
We  fioatetl  down  the  river,  or  strolled  beneath  the  trees, 
And  talked  in  long  gradation,  from  the  poets  to  tlie  weather, 
While  the  western  skies  and  my  cigar  burned  slowly  out 
together. 

Yet  througli  it  all  no  whispered  word,  no  tell-tale  glance  or 

sigh, 
Twld  aught  of  warmer  sentiment  than   friendly  sympathy — 
W'l'  talked  <if  love  as  coolly  as  we  talked  of  nebulie 
And  thought  no  more  of  being  one  than  we  did  of  being  Ihrce. 


ICA  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Well,  good-bye,  chum !"     I  took  her  hand,  for  the  time  had 

come  to  go — 
My  going  meant  our  parting,  when  to  meet,  we  did  not  know ; 
I  had  lingered  long,  and  said  farewell  with  a  very  heavy 

heart; 
For  although  we  were  hut  friends,  'tis  hard  for  honest  friends 

to  part. 

"  Good-bye,  old  fellow !  don't  forget  your  friends  beyond  the 

sea. 
And  some  day,  when  you've  lots  of  time,  drop  a  line  or  two 

to  me." 
The  words  came  lightly,  gaily,  but  a  great  sob,  just  behind, 
Welled  upward  with  a  story  of  quite  a  different  kind. 

And  then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  great  liquid  eyesof  blue. 
Filled  to  the  brim,  and  running  o'er,  like  violet  cups  of  dew ; 
One  long,  long  glance,  and   then  I  did  what  1  never  did 

before — 
Perhaps  tlii3  tears  meant  friendship,  but  I'm  sure  the  kiss 

meant  more. 


I  HAVE  DRANK   MY  LAST  GLASS. 

No,  comrades,  I  thank  you — not  any  for  me ; 
My  last  chain  is  riven — henceforward  I'm  free ! 
I  will  go  to  my  home  and  my  children  to-night 
With  no  fumes  of  liquor,  their  spirits  to  blight ; 
And,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  will  beg  my  poor  wife 
To  forgive  me  tlie  wreck  I  have  made  of  her  life. 
I liave  never  refused  i/ou  before?    Let  that  pass. 

For  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  drank  my  last  glass. 

Just  look  at  me  now,  boys,  in  rags  and  disgrace. 

With  m3^  bleared,  haggard  eyes,  and  my  red,  bloated  face; 

Mark  my  faltering  step  and  my  weak,  palsied  hand, 

And  the  mark  on  my  brow  that  is  Avorse  than  Gain's  brand ; 

See  my  crownless  old  hat,  and  my  elbows  and  knees, 

Alike,  warmed  by  the  sun,  or  chilled  by  the  breeze. 

Why,  even  the  cliildren  will  hoot  as  I  pass ; — 

But  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  drank  my  last  glass. 

You  would  hardly  believe,  boys,  to  look  at  me  now 
That  a  mother's  soft  hand  was  pressed  on  my  brow — 


NUMBER    SIX.  165 

When  she  kissed  me,  and  blessed  me,  lier  darlins;,  her  pride, 
Ere  she  laid  down  to  rest  by  my  dead  father's  side-, 
But  with  love  in  her  eyes,  she  looked  up  to  the  sky . 
Bidding  me  meet  her  there,  and  whispered  "Good-bye." 
And  I'll  do  it,  God  helping !     Your  sniile  I  let  pass, 

For  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  drank  my  last  glass. 

Ah  !  I  reeled  home  last  night,  it  was  not  very  late, 

For  I'd  spent  my  last  sixpence,  and  landlords  won't  wait 

On  a  fellow  who's  left  every  cent  in  their  till, 

And  has  pawned  his  last  bed,  their  coffers  to  fill. 

Oh,  the  torments  I  felt,  and  the  pangs  I  endured ! 

And  I  begged  for  one  glass — just  one   would  have  cured, — 

But  they  kicked  me  out  doors !  I  let  that,  too,  pass, 

For  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  drank  my  last  glass. 

At  home,  my  pet  Susie,  with  her  rich  golden  hair, 
I  saw  through  the  window,  just  kneeling  in  prayer  ; 
From  her  pale,  bony  hands,  her  torn  sleeves  hung  down. 
And  her  feet,  cold  and  bare,  shrank  beneath  her  scant  gown. 
And  she  prayed — prayed  for  bread,  just  a  poor  crust  of  bread, 
For  one  crust,  on  her  knees  my  pet  darling  plead ! 
And  I  heard,  wdth  no  penny  to  buy  one,  alas! 

But  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  drank  my  last  glass. 

For  Susie,  my  darling,  my  wee  six-year  old. 

Though  fainting  with  hunger  and  shivering  with  cold. 

There,  on  the  bare  floor,  asked  God  to  bless  me  ! 

And  she  said,  "Don't  cry,  mamma!  He  will ;  for  you  see, 

I  believe  what  I  ask  for !"     Then  sobered,  I  crept 

Away  from  the  house ;  and  that  night,  when  I  slept, 

Next  my  heart  lay  the  Pledge  !     You  smile !  let  it  pass, 

For  I've  drank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  haVe  drank  mj^Iast  glass. 

IVIy  darling  child  saved  me !  Her  faith  and  her  love 

Are  akin  to  my  dear  sainted  mother's  above  ! 

I  will  make  my  words  true,  or  I'll  die  in  the  race. 

And  solx'r  I'll  g(j  to  my  last  resting  place; 

And  she  shall  kneel  there,  and,  weeping,  thank  God 

No  dnnikdrd  lies  under  the  daisy-strewn  sod  ! 

Not  a  ilrop  more  of  i)<)ison  my  lips  shall  e'er  pass, 

For  rv(^  (Irank  my  last  glass,  boys, 

I  have  flrauk  my  last  glass. 


166  ONE    IIUNDRKD    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD  AND  HIS  CHILD-WIFE. 
Charles  Dickens. 

All  this  time  I  had  gone  on  loving  Dora  harder  than 
ever.  If  I  may  so  express  it,  I  was  steeped  in  Dora.  I 
was  not  merely  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her,  I 
■was  saturated  through  and  through.  I  took  night  walks 
to  Norwood  where  she  lived,  and  perambulated  round 
and  round  the  house  and  garden  for  hours  together,  look- 
ing through  crevices  in  the  palings,  using  violent  exer- 
tions to  get  my  chin  above  the  rusty  nails  on  the  top, 
blowing  kisses  at  the  lights  in  the  windows,  and  roman- 
tically calling  on  the  night  to  shield  my  Dora, — I  don't 
exactly  know  from  what, — I  suppose  from  fire,  perhaps 
from  mice,  to  which  she  had  a  great  objection. 

Dora  had  a  discreet  friend,  comparatively  stricken  in 
years,  almost  of  the  ripe  age  of  twenty,  I  should  say, 
whose  name  was  Miss  Mills.  Dora  called  her  Julia, 
She  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Dora.     Happy  Miss  Mills ! 

One  day  JNIiss  Mills  said  :  "  Dora  is  coming  to  stay  with 
me.  She  is  coming  the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  you  would 
like  to  call,  I  am  sure  papa  would  be  happy  to  see  you." 

I  passed  three  days  in  a  luxury  of  wretchedness.  At 
last,  arrayed  fur  the  purpose,  at  a  vast  expense,  I  went 
to  Miss  Mills',  fraught  with  a  declaration.  jNIr.  Mills  was 
not  at  home.  I  didn't  expect  he  would  be.  Nobody  want- 
ed him.     Miss  ISIills  was  at  home.     Miss  Mills  would  do. 

I  was  shown  into  a  room,  up  stairs,  where  Miss  Mills 
and  Dora  were.  Dora's  little  dog  Jip  was  there.  JNIiss 
Mills  was  copying  music,  and  Dora  was  paintiug  llowers. 
What  were  my  feelings  when  I  recognized  flow'ers  I  had 
given  her ! 

Miss  Mills  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  very  sorry 
her  papa  was  not  at  home,  though  I  thought  we  all  bore 
that  with  f  trtitude.  Miss  Mills  was  conversational  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  laying  down  her  pen,  got  up  and 
left  the  room. 


NUMBER    SIX.  167 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"I  hope  your  poor  horse  was  not  tired  when  he  got 
home  at  night  from  that  picnic,"  said  Dora,  lifling  up 
her  beautiful  eyes.     "  It  was  a  long  way  for  him." 

I  began  to  think  I  would  do  it  to-day. 

"  It  was  a  long  way  for  him,  for  he  had  nothing  to  up- 
hold him  on  the  journey." 

"  Wasn't  he  fed,  poor  thing?"  asked  Dora. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"  Ye — yes,  he  was  well  taken  care  of  I  mean  he  had 
not  the  unutterable  happiness  that  I  had  in  being  so  near 
to  you." 

I  saw  BOW  that  I  was  in  for  it,  and  it  must  be  done  on 
the  spot. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  care  for  being  near 
me,"  said  Dora,  "or  Avliy  you  should  call  it  a  happiness. 
But,  of  course,  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  Jip,  you 
naughty  boy,  come  here  !" 

I  don't  know  how  I  did  it,  but  I  did  it  in  a  moment. 

I  intercepted  Jip.  I  had  Dora  in  my  arms.  I  was 
full  of  eloquence.  I  never  stopped  for  a  w'ord.  I  told 
her  how  I  loved  her.  I  told  her  I  should  die  without 
her.  I  told  her  that  I  idolized  and  worshipped  her. 
Jip  barked  madly  all  the  time.  My  eloquence  increased, 
and  I  said,  if  she  would  like  me  to  die  for  her,  she  had 
but  to  say  the  word,  and  I  was  ready.  I  had  loved  her 
to  distraction  every  minute,  day  and  night,  since  I  first 
set  eyes  u])on  her.  I  loved  her  at  that  minute  to  dis- 
traction. I  should  always  love  her,  every  minute,  to 
distraction.  Lovers  had  loved  before,  and  lovers  would 
love  again  ;  but  no  lover  had  ever  loved,  might,  could, 
would,  or  should  ever  love,  as  I  loved  Dora.  The  more 
I  raved,  the  more  Jip  barked.  Each  of  us  in  his  own 
way  got  nioi-e  niiid  every  moment. 

Well !  well!  Dora  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa,  by 
and  l)y,  (juiet  enough,  and  Jip  was  lying  in  her  lap  wink- 
ing peacefully  at  nie.  It  was  off  my  mind.  I  was  in  a 
state  of  perfect  rapture.     Dora  and  I  were  engaged. 


168  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELJiCTIONS 

Being  poor,  I  felt  it  necessary  the  next  time  I  went 
to  my  darling  to  expatiate  on  that  unfortunate  drawback. 
I  soon  carried  desolation  into  the  bosom  of  our  joys — not 
that  I  meant  to  dc  it,  but  that  I  was  so  full  of  the  subject 
— by  asking  Dora,  without  the  smallest  preparation,  if 
she  could  love  a  beg2:ar. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  anything  so  foolish  ?  Love  a 
beggar !" 

"  Dora,  my  own  dearest,  I  am  a  beggar !" 

"  How  can  you  be  such  a  silly  thing,"  replied  Dora, 
slapping  my  hand,  "as  to  sit  there,  telling. such  stories? 
I'll  make  Jip  bite  you,  if  you  are  so  ridiculous." 

But  I  looked  so  serious  that  Dora  began  to  cry.  She 
did  nothing  but  exclaim,  oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  and  oh, 
she  was  so  frightened !  And  where  was  Julia  Mills  ? 
And  oh,  take  her  to  Julia  Mills ;  and  go  away,  please ! 
until  I  was  almost  beside  mvself. 

I  thought  I  had  killed  her.  I  sprinkled  water  on  her 
face  ;  I  went  down  on  my  knees  ;  I  plucked  at  my  hair  ; 
I  implored  her  forgiveness ;  I  besought  her  to  look  up  ; 
I  ravaged  Miss  Mills'  work-box  for  a  smelling-bottle, 
and,  in  my  agony  of  mind,  applied  an  ivory  needle-case, 
instead,  and  dropped  all  the  needles  over  Dora. 

At  last  I  got  Dora  to  look  at  me,  with  a  horrified  ex- 
pression which  I  gradually  soothed  until  it  was  only 
loving,  and  her  soft,  pretty  cheek  was  lying  against  mine. 

"Is  your  heart  mine  still,  dear  Dora?" 

"  Oh  yes !  oh  yes !  it's  all  yours.    Oh,  don't  be  dreadful." 

"  My  dearest  love,  the  crust  well  earned — " 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about 
crusts.  And  after  we  are  married,  Jip  must  have  a  mut- 
ton chop  every  day  at  twelve,  or  he'll  die." 

I  was  charmed  with  her  childish,  winning  way,  and  I 
fondly  explained  to  her  that  Jip  should  have  his  mutton 
chop  with  his  accustomed  regularity. 

When  we  had  been  engaged  some  half-year  or  so,  Dora 
delighted  mc  by  asking  me  to  give  her  that  cookery  book 


NUMBER    SIX.  169 

I  had  once  spoken  of,  and  to  show  her  how  to  keep  ac- 
counts, us  I  had  once  promised  I  would.  I  brouglit  the 
volume  with  me  on  my  next  visit  (I  got  it  prettily  bound 
fii"st,  to  make  it  look  less  dry  and  more  inviting),  and 
showed  her  an  old  housekeeping  book  of  my  aunt's,  and 
gave  her  a  set  of  tablets,  and  a  pretty  little  pencil-case, 
and  a  box  of  leads,  to  practise  housekeeping  with. 

But  the  cookery-book  made  Dora's  head  ache,  and  the 
figures  made  her  cry.  They  wouldn't  add  up,  she  said. 
So  she  rubbed  them  out,  and  drew  little  nosegays,  and 
likenesses  of  me  and  Jip,  all  over  the  tablets. 

Time  went  on,  and  at  last,  here  in  this  hand  of  mine, 
I  held  the  wedding  license.  There  were  the  two  names 
in  the  sweet  old  visionary  connection, — David  Copper- 
field  and  D.)ra  Spenlow ;  and  there  in  the  corner  was 
that  parental  institution,  the  Stamp  Office,  looking  down 
upon  our  union ;  and  there,  in  the  printed  form  of  words, 
was  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  invoking  a  blessing 
on  us,  and  doing  it  as  cheap  as  could  possibly  be  expected. 

I  doubt  whether  two  young  birds  could  have  known 
less  about  keeping  house  than  I  and  my  pretty  Dora 
did.    We  had  a  servant,  of  course.    She  kept  house  for  us. 

We  had  an  awful  time  of  it  with  Mary  Anne. 

Her  name  was  Paragon.  Her  nature  was  represented 
to  us,  when  we  engaged  her,  as  being  feebly  expressed 
in  her  name.  She  had  a  written  character,  as  large  as 
a  proclamation,  and  according  to  this  document  could 
do  everything  of  a  domestic  nature  that  ever  I  heard  of, 
and  a  great  many  things  that  I  never  did  hear  of.  She 
was  a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life ;  of  a  severe  counte- 
nance, and  subject  (particularly  in  the  arms)  to  a  sort  of 
per|)etual  measles.  She  had  a  cousin  in  the  Life  Guards, 
with  such  long  h^gs  that  he  looked  like  the  afternoon 
shadow  of  somebody  else.  Slu;  was  warranted  sober 
and  honest;  and  I  am  therefore  willing  to  believe  that 
she  was  in  a  fit  wlicn  we  found  her  under  the  boiler, 
and  that  the  deficient  teasjxjoiis  were  attributable  to  the 


170  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

dustman.     She  was  the  cause  of  our  first  little  quarrel. 

"My  dearest  life,"  I  said  one  day  to  Dora,  "do  you 
think  that  Mary  Anne  has  any  idea  of  time  ?" 

"Why,Doady?" 

"  My  love,  because  it's  five,  and  we  were  to  have  dined 
at  four." 

My  little  wife  came  and  sat  upon  my  knee,  to  coax  me 
to  be  quiet,  and  drew  a  line  with  her  pencil  down  the 
middle  of  my  nose ;  but  I  couldn't  dine  ofi'  that,  though 
it  was  very  agreeable. 

"  Don't  you  think,  my  dear,  it  would  be  better  for  you 
to  remonstrate  with  Mary  Anne?" 

"  Oh,  no,  please  !  I  couldn't,  Doady !" 

"  Why  not,  my  love  ?" 

"  Oh,  because  I  am  such  a  little  goose,  and  she  knows 
I  am !" 

I  thought  this  sentiment  so  incompatible  with  the  es- 
tablishment of  any  system  of  check  on  Mary  Anne,  that 
I  frowned  a  little. 

"  My  precious  wife,  we  must  be  serious  sometimes. 
Come !  sit  down  on  this  chair,  close  beside  me !  Give 
me  the  pencil !  There !  Now  let  us  talk  sensibly. 
You  know,  dear," — what  a  little  hand  it  was  to  hold, 
and  what  a  tiny  wedding  ring  it  was  to  see, — "  you  know, 
my  love  it  is  not  exactly  comfortable  to  have  to  go  out 
without  one's  dinner.     Now  is  itr?" 

"N-n-no!"  replied  Dora,  faintly. 

"  My  love,  how  you  tremble  !" 

"  Because,  I  know  you're  going  to  scold  me." 

"  My  sweet,  I  am  only  going  to  reason." 

"  Oh,  but  reasoning  is  worse  than  scolding  !  I  didn't 
marry  to  be  reasoned  with.  If  you  meant  to  reason 
with  such  a  poor  little  thing  as  I  am,  you  ought  to  have 
told  me  so,  you  cruel  boy  !" 

"  Dora,  my  darling !" 

"  No,  I  am  not  your  darling,  because  you  must  be 
sorry  that  you  married  me,  or  else  you  wouldn't  reason 
with  me!" 


NUMBER    SIX.  171 

I  felt  SO  injured  by  the  inconsequential  nsfture  of  this 
charge,  that  it  gave  me  courage  to  be  grave. 

"  Now,  my  own  Dora,  you  are  childish,  and  are  talking 
nonsense.  You  must  remember,  I  am  sure,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  go  out  yesterday  when  dinner^  was  half  over  ; 
and  that,  the  day  before,  I  was  made  quite  unwell  by  be- 
ing obliged  to  eat  underdone  veal  in  a  hurry ;  to-day,  I 
don't  dine  at  all,  and  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  long  we 
waited  for  breakfast,  and  then  the  water  didn't  boil.  I 
don't  mean  to  reproach  you,  my  dear,  but  this  is  not 
comfortable." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel,  cruel  boy,  to  say  I  am  a  disagreeable 
wife  !" 

"  Now,  my  dear  Dora,  you  must  know  that  I  never 
said  that !" 

"  You  said  I  wasn't  comfortable !" 

"I  said  the  housekeeping  was  not  comfortable!"' 

"  It's  exactly  the  same  thing !  and  I  wonder,  I  do,  at 
your  making  such  ungrateful  speeches.  When  you  know 
that  the  other  day,  when  you  said  you  would  like  a  little 
bit  offish,  I  went  out  myself,  miles  and  miles,  and  ordered 
it  to  surprise  you." 

"And  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  ray  own  darling ;  and 
I  felt  it  so  much  that  I  wouldn't  on  any  account  have 
mentioned  that  you  bought  a  salmon,  which  was  too 
much  for  two ;  or  that  it  cost  one  pound  six,  which  was 
more  than  we  can  attbrd." 

"  You  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  sobbed  Dora.  "And 
you  said  I  was  a  mouse." 

"And  I'll  say  so  again,  my  love,  a  thousand  times !" 

I  said  it  a  thousand  times  and  more,  and  went  on  say- 
ing it  until  Mary  Anne's  cousin  deserted  into  our  coal- 
hole, and  was  brought  out,  to  our  great  amazement,  by  a 
picket  of  his  companions  in  arms,  who  took  him  away 
handeuffcd  in  a  procession  that  covered  our  front  gar- 
den with  disgrace. 

Everybody  we   had  anything  to  do  with  seemed  to 


172  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

cheat  us.  Our  appearance  in  a  sliop  was  a  signal  for  the 
damaged  goods  to  be  brought  out  immediately.  If  we 
bought  a  lobster,  it  was  full  of  water.  All  our  meat  turned 
out  tough,  and  there  was  hardly  any  crust  to  our  loaves. 

As  to  the  washerwoman  pawning  the  clothes,  and  com- 
ing in  a  state  of  penitent  intoxication  to  apologize,  I  sup- 
pose that  might  have  happened  several  times  to  anybody. 
Also  the  chimney  on  fire,  the  parish  engine,  and  perjury 
on  the  part  of  the  beadle.  But  I  apprehend  we  were 
personally  unfortunate  in  our  page,  whose  principal  func- 
tion was  to  quarrel  with  the  cook.  We  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
him,  but  he  was  very  much  attached  to  us,  and  wouldn't 
go,  until  one  day  he  stole  Dora's  watch,  then  he  went. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  all  this,  Doady,"  said  Dora. 
"  Will  you  call  me  a  name  I  want  you  to  call  me  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?" 

"  It's  a  stupid  name, — Child-wife.  When  you  are  go- 
ing to  be  angry  with  me,  say  to  yourself,  '  It's  only  my 
Child-wife.'  When  I  am  very  disappointing,  say, '  I  knew 
a  long  time  ago,  that  she  would  make  but  a  Child-wife.' 
When  you  miss  what  you  would  like  me  to  be,  and  what 
I  should  like  to  be,  and  what  I  think  I  never  can  be, 
sav,  '  Still  my  foolish  Child-wife  loves  me.'  For  indeed 
I  do." 

I  invoke  the  innocent  figure  that  I  dearly  loved  to 
come  out  of  the  mists  and  shadows  of  the  past,  and  to 
turn  its  gentle  head  towards  me  once  again,  and  to  bear 
witness  that  it  was  made  happy  by  what  I  answered. 


IN  SCHOOL  DAYS.— J.  G.  Whittier. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 
■   A  rajr<red  begirar  sunning; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 
And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 


NUMBER    SIX.  173 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  scats, 
The  jaekknife's  carved  mitial ; 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes. 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 

And  brown  eyes,  full  of  grieving, 
Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 

When  all  the  school  wfere  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy, 

Her  childish  favor  singled, 
His  cap  pulled  low  ui>on  a  face 

Where  pride  and  sliame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 

To  right  and  left,  he  lingered; 
As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  api'on  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes ;  he  felt 

The  soft  hands'  light  caressing, 
And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 

As  if  a  fault  confessing  : 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  si)elt  the  word ; 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because  " — the  brown  eyes  lower  fell— 

"Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 

That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 
Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 

Have  forty  years  been  growing. 

He  lives  to  learn  in  life's  hard  school. 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
I^arriont  their  triumph  ami  his  loss, 

Like  her,— because  they  love  him. 

— Oar  Youmj  Fc.lks. 


174  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  DYING  ALCHEMIST.— N.  P.  Willis. 

The  night-wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by, 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Creaking  upon  their  hinges  ;  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 
The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low, 
Yet  still  it  burned ;  and  ever,  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difticult  energy  ;  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and,  with  unclosed  lips, 
Muttered  a  curse  on  death  ! 

The  silent  room, 
From  its  dim  corners,  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath  ;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one. 
He  (Irew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank.     And  instantly  his  lips  compressed, 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: 

"  I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do ; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye  ; 
I  felt_ — O  God  !  it  seemeth  even  now— 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  mv  brow ; 

"And  yet  it  is,— I  feel. 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart,  afraid  ; 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade. 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand,— 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 

"And  this  is  death !     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  recoil  ?    It  cannot  be 


HUMBER    SIX, 


175 


Th'  immortal  spirit  shuddereth  to  be  free. 

Would  it  not  leap  to  iiy, 
Like  a  chained  eaglet  at  it«  parent's  call? 
I  fear,  I  fear,  that  this  poor  life  is  all ! 

"  Yet  thus  to  pass  away  !— 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last; 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast. 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are, — for  this, — for  naught ! 

"  Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit ! — but  a  day — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within! 

I  would  know  something  here ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken ! 

"Vain,— vain, — my  brain  is  turning 
AVith  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing,  burning, 
Dying !     O  God  !  if  I  might  only  live ! 
My  phial Ha  !  it  thrills  me,— I  revive. 

"Aye,  were  not  man  to  die, 
He  were  too  mighty  for  this  narrow  sphere ! 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here, 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye, 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour, 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power  I 

"Earth  has  no  mineral  strange, 
Th'  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings, 
Water  no  quality  in  covert  springs, 

And  fire  no  power  to  change, 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell, 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 

"  Oh,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky. 
To  see  th'  invisible  sjjirits,  eye  to  eye. 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back. 
To  tread  unliurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls. 
To  chase  day's  chariot  to  the  horizon-wallti, 


176  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"And  more,  much  more, — for  now 
The  life-sealed  fountains  of  my  nature  move 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love, 

To  clear  the  God-like  brow 
Of  weakness  and  mistrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one ; 

"This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slaken  at  the  living  stream ; 
To  live— O  God  !  that  life  is  but  a  dream ! 

And  death Aha !  I  reel, — 

Dim, — dim, — I  faint,  darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye,- 
Cover  me !  save  me ! God  of  heaven !  1  die  !" 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
Iso  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.     His  long,  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples,  thin  and  wild; 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

The  storm  was  raging  still.    The  shutter  swung, 
Creaking  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind, 
And  all  without  went  on,— as  aye  it  will. 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them,  and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire, — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring,  down, — an  instrument 
Broken  with  its  own  compass.    Oh,  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  out-flown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked, — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest. 


KUMBER    SIX.  177 


SOLILOQUY  OF  KING  RICHARD  III.— Shakspeare. 

Give  me  another  horse— bind  up  my  wounds — 
Have  mercy,  Jesu ! — soft !  I  did  but  dream. 

0  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  aftlict  me ! 
The  lights  burn  blue.     It  is  now  dead  midnight 
Cold,  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 
What  do  I  fear?     Myself!     There's  none  else  by. 
Richard  loves  Richard  :  that  is,  I  am  I. 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?     No — yes  ;  I  am. 

Then  fly.     What !     From  myself?    Great  reason :  Why  1 

Lest  I  revenge.     What  ?     Myself  on  myself? 

1  love  myself.    Wherefore  ?     For  any  good 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 
Oh,  no  :  alas !  I  rather  hate  myself 

For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself. 

I  am  a  villain ;  yet  I  lie :  I  am  not. 
Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well — fool,  do  not  flatter — 
My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues; 
And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale  ; 
And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 
Perjury,  perjury  in  the  highest  degree ; 
Murder,  stern  murder  in  the  direst  degree ; 
All  several  sins,  all  used  in  each  degree. 
Throng  to  the  bar,  crying  all,  Guilty!  guilty  I 
I  shall  despair.    There  is  no  creature  loves  me, 
And,  if  I  die,  no  soul  will  pity  me; 
Nay  ;  wherefore  should  they  ;  since  that  I  myself 
Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself? — 
Methought  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murdered 
Came  to  my  tent,  and  every  one  did  threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 


THE   SILVER  WEDDING.— Mrs.  C.  M.  Stowb. 

Did  you  think  I  could  forgot  it, 

Five  and  twenty  years  a-gone? 
On  a  beautiful  May  morning, 

Flowers  wen;  blooming  on  the  lawn  ; 
My  heart  was  lilled  willi  gladness, 

And  my  cheeks  were  flushed  with  pride 

8* 


178  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

While  I  waited  for  your  coming — 
I  was  soon  to  be  a  bride. 

Five  and  twenty  years,  my  darling, 

Since  that  morn,  have  passed  away; 
Let  us  count  tliem,  looking  backward, 

Till  we  reach  our  wedding  day. 
Do  you  see  the  sun  above  us. 

And  the  blue  and  cloudless  sky, 
And  remember  how  that  morning, 

We  w6re  happy,  you  and  I  ? 

Do  you  see  the  low-roofed  dwelling. 

With  its  white  and  shining  tloor, 
And  the  hewed  logs  matched  so  nicely, 

And  the  rose-tree  by  the  door? 
And  the  wedding  guests, — I  see  them 

Through  the  five  and  twenty  years, 
Sitting  quietly  around  us, 

Smiling  fondly  through  their  tears. 

They  were  only  those  who  loved  us, 

As  we  stood  there,  you  and  I, 
Looking  forward  to  the  future. 

Through  a  clear  and  cloudless  sky. 
Ah,  to-day  in  looking  backward, 

I  can  see  you  standing  there. 
In  your  pride  of  youthful  manhood, 

With  your  brow  unmarked  by  care  I 

And  I  stood  that  day  beside  you. 

In  my  robe  of  simple  white, 
AVithout  gems  or  costly  jewels. 

Flashing  in  the  morning  light. 
Just  a  loving  heart  I  gave  you, 

As  our  hands  were  clasped  that  day, 
With  no  cloud  upon  our  future — 

Only  sunshine  in  our  way. 

Five  and  twenty  years,  my  darling, 

Through  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
We  have  walked  beside  each  other. 

In  the  path  our  love  has  made. 
But  the  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  us, 

Drifting  down  the  stream  of  life, 
And  our  hearts  have  throbbed  with  sorrow. 

Since  you  claimed  me  as  a  wife. 


NUMBER    SIX.  179 

But  to-night,  in  looking  backward, 

Looking  backward  all  the  way, 
Through  the  clouds,  the  storms,  the  sunshine, 

That  have  gathered  since  that  day, 
There  is  more  of  good  than  evil. 

Though  our  feet  have  tired  grown  ; — 
Five  and  twenty  years,  my  darling, 

Since  our  wedding  day,  have  flown. 


A  CENSUS-TAKER'S  EXPERIENCE. 

At  one  house  I  saw  the  women  up-stairs  at  the  win- 
dow as  I  went  up  the  front  steps.  A  fat,  good-looking 
girl  came  to  the  door,  and  I  commenced  asking  questions. 

"Any  children  been  born  here  during  the  last  year?" 

"  Don't  know,"  says  she.  "  I  hain't  been  here  but  three 
weeks.  I'll  go  and  ask  missis,"  and  away  she  toddled 
up-stairs.     Pretty  soon  she  came  back  and  says : 

"  Missis  wants  to  know  what  you  want  to  know  for  ?" 

"Tell  her  I  am  taking  the  city  census,  as  required  by 
law  each  year,"  says  I,  and  away  went  the  girl  again. 
When  she  got  back  she  said : 

"Yes." 

"  How  many  ?"  says  I. 

"  Only  one,"  says  she. 

"  Boy  or  girl  ?"  says  I. 

"  Girl,"  says  she. 

"  What's  her  name  ?"  says  I. 

"Dimple,"  says  she. 

"  That's  her  baby-name,"  says  I.  "  What's  her  real, 
full  name?" 

"  I'll  ask  missis,"  says  she,  and  up  she  went. 

"  Beatrice  Branscombe  Brown,"  says  she. 

"  When  was  she  born?"  says  I. 

"  I'll  ask  missis,"  says  she,  and  I  whistled  "  The  Watch 
on  the  Rhine  "  clear  tlirough  before  she  came  back. 

"  Day  before  Cluistmas,"  says  she. 

"  What  is  her  father's  name  ?"  says  I. 


180  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Mr.  Brown,  of  course,"  says  she. 

"  What's  his  first  name  ?"  says  I. 

"  I'll  ask  missis."  The,  girl  was  fat  and  began  to  puff 
as  she  went  up-stairs. 

"  Benjamin  Bruce  Brown,"  says  she. 

"  What  does  he  do  for  a  living?"  says  I. 

"  Keeps  a  store,"  says  she. 

"  What's  her  mother's  name  ?"  says  I. 

"  I'll  ask  her ;"  and  away  she  went  again. 

"  Betholinda  Berthelet  Brown,"  she  gasped  on  her  re- 
turn, entirely  overcome  by  the  exertion. 

Just  then  the  woman  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
and  says : 

"  Seems  to  me  you're  asking  a  great  many  imperti- 
nent questions." 

"  Law  requires  it,"  says  I.     Where  were  you  born  ?" 

"  Buffalo." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  None  of  your  business  !     Matilda,  shut  the  door  1" 

— Detroit  Free  P^-ess. 


WHERE  MAN  SHOULD  DIE.— Michael  Joseph  Barky. 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  lie. 

When  once  the  moment's  past 
In  which  the  dim  and  glazing  eye 

Has  looked  on  earth  its  last, — 
Whether  beneath  the  sculptured  urn 

The  coffined  form  shall  rest, 
Or  in  its  nakedness  return 

Back  to  its  mother's  breast ! 

Death  is  a  common  friend  or  foe, 

As  different  men  may  hold. 
And  at  his  summons  each  must  go, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 
But  when  the  spirit,  free  and  warm, 

Deserts  it,  as  it  must. 
What  matters  where  the  lifeless  form 

Dissolves  again  to  dust? 


KUMBER    SIX. 

The  soldier  falls  mid  corses  piled 

Upon  the  battle-plain, 
Where  reinless  war-steeds  gallop  wild 

Above  the  mangled  slain ; 
But  though  his  corse  be  grim  to  see, 

Hoof-trampled  on  the  sod, 
What  recks  it,  when  the  spirit  free 

Has  soared  aloft  to  God  ? 

The  coward's  dying  eyes  may  close 

Upon  his  downy  bed. 
And  softest  hands  his  limbs  compose, 

Or  garments  o'er  them  spread. 
But  ye  who  shun  the  bloody  fray, 

When  fall  the  mangled  brave. 
Go— strip  his  cothn-lid  away, 

And  see  him  in  his  grave ! 

'Twere  sweet,  indeed,  to  close  our  eyes 

With  those  we  cherish  near, 
And,  wafted  upwards  by  their  sighs. 

Soar  to  some  calmer  sphere. 
But  whether  on  the  scaflbld  high, 

Or  in  the  battle's  van. 
The  fittest  place  where  man  can  die 

Is  where  he  dies  for  man ! 


181 


THE  CHARCOAL  MAN.— J.  T.  Trowbridgb. 

Though  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast, 
And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
Mark  Haley  drives  along  the  street, 
Perched  high  upon  his  wagon  seat ; 
His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies. 
And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, — 

"Charco' !  charco' !" 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies, — 

"  Hark,  0  !  hark,  O  !" 
"Charco' !"— "  Hark,  O!"— Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  daily  rounds. 

The  dust  begrimes  his  ancient  hat; 
His  coat  is  darker  far  than  that; 
'Tis  odd  to  see  his  sooty  form 


« 


182  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

All  speckled  with  the  feathery  storm ; 

Yet  in  his  honest  bosom  lies 

Nor  spot,  nor  speck,— though  still  he  cries: 

"  Charco' !  charco' !" 
And  many  a  roguish  lad  replies, — 

"Ark,  ho  :  ark,  ho !" 
"Charco' !"— "Ark,  ho!"— Such  various  sounds 
Announce-  Mark  Haley's  morning  rounds. 

Thus  all  the  cold  and  wintry  day 
He  labors  much  for  little  pay ; 
Yet  feels  no  less  of  happiness 
Than  many  a  richer  man,  I  guess, 
When  through  the  shades  of  eve  he  spies 
The  light  of  his  own  home,  and  cries,— 

"  Charco' !  charco' !" 
And  Martha  from  the  door  replies, — 

"  Mark,  ho !  Mark,  ho !" 
"  Charco' !"— "  Mark,  ho  !"— Such  joys  abounds 
When  he  has  closed  his  daily  rounds. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  fire  is  bright 

And  while  his  hand,  washed  clean  and  white, 

Holds  Martha's  tender  hand  once  more, 

His  glowing  face  bends  fondly  o'er 

The  crib  wherein  his  darling  lies, 

And  in  a  coaxing  tone  he  cries, — 

"  Charco' !  charco' !" 
And  baby  with  a  laugh  replies, — 

"Ah,  go!  ah,  go!" 
"Charco' !"— "Ah,  go!"— while  at  the  sounds 
The  mother's  heart  with  gladness  bounds. 

.  Then  honored  be  the  charcoal  man ! 
Though  dusky  as  an  African, 
'Tis  not  for  you,  that  chance  to  be 
A  little  better  clad  than  he, 
His  honest  manhood  to  despise, 
Although  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, — 
"  Charco' !  charco' !" 
-    While  mocking  echo  still  replies,— 
"  Hark,  O !  harji  O  !" 
"Charco' !" — " Hark,  0 !" — Long  may  the  sounds 
Proclaim  Mark  Haley's  daily  rounds ! 

— Oar  Young  Folks. 


NUMBER    SIX.  183 


THE  NATIONAL  BANNER.— Edward  Everett. 

All  hail  to  our  glorious  ensign !  courage  to  the  heart, 
and  strength  to  the  hand,  to  which,  in  all  time,  it  shall 
be  intrusted!  May  it'ever  wave  in  honor,  in  unsullied 
glory,  and  patriotic  hope,  on  the  do^ie  of  the  capitol,  on 
the  country's  stronghold,  on  the  entented  plain,  on  the 
wave-rocked  topmast ! 

Wherever,  on  the  earth's  surface,  the  eye  of  the  Amer- 
ican shall  behold  it,  may  he  have  reason  to  bless  it !  On 
whatsoever  spot  it  is  planted,  there  may  freedom  have  a 
foothold,  humanity  a  brave  champion,  and  religion  an 
altar !  Though  stained  with  blood  in  a  righteous  cause, 
may  it  never  in  any  cause,  be  stained  with  shame  ! 

Alike,  when  its  gorgeous  folds  shall  wanton  in  lazy 
holiday-triumphs  on  the  summer  breeze,  and  its  tattered 
fragments  be  dimly  seen  through  the  clouds  of  war,  may 
it  be  the  joy  and  pride  of  the  American  heart !  First 
raised  in  the  cause  of  right  and  liberty,  in  that  cause 
alone  may  it  forever  spread  out  its  streaming  blazonry 
to  the  battle  and  the  storm  !  Having  been  borne  vie- 
toriously  across  the  continent  and  on  every  sea,  may 
virtue  and  freedom  and  peace  foi'ever  follow  where  it 
leads  the  way  ! 


FIRST  APPEARANCE  IN  TYPE. 

Ah,  here  it  is!     I'm  famous  now; 

An  author  and  a  poet. 
It  really  is  in  print.     Hurrah! 

How  proud  I'll  be  to  show  it. 
And  j.fentle  Anna  !  what  a  thrill 

Will  animate  her  breast, 
To  read  these  ardent  lines,  and  know 

To  whom  they  are  addressed. 

Why,  bless  my  soul !  here's  something  wrong; 
VVhat  can  the  i^aper  mean 


184  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

By  talking  of  the  "graceful  brook," 
That  "  ganders  o'er  tlie  green  ?" 

And  here's  a  t  instead  of  r, 

Which  makes  it  "  tippling  rill," 

We'll  seek  the  "shad"  instead  of  "shade," 
And  "hell"  instead  of  "hill." 

"Thy  looks  so"— what?— I  recollect; 

'Tvvas  "  sweet,"  and  then  'twas  "  kind ;" 
And  now,  to  think,— the  stupid  fool 

For  "bland"  has  printed  "blind." 
Was  ever  such  provoking  work  ? 

('Tis  curious,  by  the  by. 
That  anything  is  rendered  blind 

By  giving  it  an  i.) 

The  color  of  the  "  rose  "  is  "  nose," 

"Affection"  is  "affliction ;" 
(I  wonder  if  the  likeness  holds 

In  fact  as  well  as  fiction  ?) 
"Thou  art  a  friend."    The  r  is  gone ; 

Whoever  would  have  deemed 
That  such  a  trifling  thing  could  change 

A  friend  into  a  fiend  ? 

"Thou  art  the  same,"  is  rendered  "lame;" 

It  really  is  too  bad  ! 
And  here  because  an  i  is  out, 

My  lovely  "maid"  is  "mad." 
They  drove  her  blind  by  poking  in 

An  i — a  jsrocess  new — 
And  now  they've  gouged  it  out  again, 

And  made  her  crazy,  too. 

I'll  read  no  more.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

I'll  never  dare  to  send  it. 
The  paper's  scattered  far  and  wide, 

'Tis  now  too  late  to  mend  it. 

0  fame !  thou  cheat  of  human  life, 
Why  did  I  ever  write  ! 

1  wish  my  poem  had  been  burnt, 
Before  it  saw  the  light. 

Was  ever  such  a  horrid  hash, 
In  poetry  or  prose  ? 


4.^ 


NUMBEU    SIX.  I'^-'j 

I've  paid  she  was  a  "  fiend !"  and  praised 

The  color  of  her  "  nose." 
I  wish  1  had  that  printer  here 

Ahout  a  half  a  minute, 
I'd  bang  him  to  his  heart's  content, 

And  with  an  h  begin  it. 


I 


HELVELLYN.— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a  most  amiable  dis- 
position, perished  liy  losing  his  way  on  the  nionntiiin  Helvellyn.  His  reniaiiia 
were  not  discovered  till  three  months  afterwards,  wlien  they  were  found  guarded 
bv  a  faithful  dog,  his  constant  attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles  through 
the  wilds  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland. 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn, 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and  wide ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 

And,  starting  around  me,  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was  bending, 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
AVhen  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  broad  mountain  heather, 

Where  the  pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in  decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast,  abandoned  to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay ; 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou  start? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou  number 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart? 
And,  oh  !  was  it  meet,  that— no  requiem  read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before  him — 

Unhonored  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  has  yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-liglited  hall; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coliin  is  shielded. 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 


186  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are  gleam- 
ing; 
In  the  proudly-arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming ; 
Far  a-down  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  Nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb, 
When  'wildered  he  drops  from  some  clift'  huge  in  stature, 

And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch,  by  this  desert  lake  lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to"  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


DEACOX  HEZEKIAH. 


Oh  !  Hezekiah's  a  pious  soul. 

With  his  phiz  as  long  as  a  hickory  pole. 

And  he  wouldn't  smile  if  you'd  give  him  the  whole 

Of  the  gold  in  California. 
There  he  sits,  like  a  cloud,  in  his  Sunday  pew. 
With  his  book  in  his  hand,  in  his  long-tailed  blue, 
And  you'd  better  take  care,  or  he'll  look  you  through, 

With  a  glance  that  says,  "  I  scorn  ye." 

He  is  very  straight,  and  narrow,  and  tall. 
From  the  crown  to  the  hem  of  his  overall ; 
And  he  sings  the  psalm  with  a  woful  drawl, 

And  a  mouth  like  a  clam's  when  it's  crying; 
But  when  Monday  comes  he  is  up  with  the  sun ; 
His  religion  is  over,  his  work  begun, 
And  you'd  think  that  there  wasn't  a  world  but  one, 

And  he  hadn't  a  thought  of  dying. 

You  would  think  he  was  sorry  he'd  lost  a  day, 
As  he  rushes  and  rattles  and  drives  away. 
As  he  gives  the  poor  orphan  a  crusty  "  nay," 

And  the  widow  a  vinegar  greeting ; 
And  he  bargains,  and  sells,  and  collects  his  rent, 
Nor  tears  nor  petitions  can  make  him  relent. 
Till  he  gets  in  his  pocket  each  doubtful  cent. 

Though  he  wouldn't  be  seen  a-chcating  I 


NUMBER    SIX.  187 

And  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday,  and  all  the  week, 
He  doesn't  know  Gentile,  nor  Jew,  nor  Greek, 
Nor  care  whom  he  robs  of  the  last  beef-steak, 

Nor  the  last  poor  hope  of  tire. 
But  Hezekiah  is  pious,  very! 
For  who  in  the  world  ever  saw  him  merry  ? 
And  he  looks  as  forlorn  as  a  dromedary, 

And  his  voice,  of  ittelf,  is  a  choir. 


JERUSALEM   BY    MOONLIGHT.— B.  Disraeli. 

The  broad  moon  lingers  on  tlie  summit  of  Mount  Olivet, 
but  its  beam  has  long  left  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  and 
the  tomb  of  Absalom,  the  waters  of  Kedrou  and  the  dark 
abyss  of  Jehoshaphat.  Full  falls  its  si)lendor,  however, 
on  the  opposite  city,  vivid  and  defined  in  its  silver  blaze. 
A  lofty  wall,  with  turrets  and  towers,  and  frequent  gates, 
undulates  with  the  unequal  ground  which  it  covers,  as 
it  encircles  the  lost  capital  of  Jehovah.  It  is  a  city  of 
hills,  far  more  fomous  than  those  of  Rome  ;  for  all  Europe 
has  heard  of  Sion  and  of  Calvary,  while  the  Arab  and 
the  Assyrian,  and  the  tribes  and  nations  beyond,  are 
ignorant  of  the  Capitolian  and  Aventine  Mounts. 

The  broad  st(;ep  of  Sion,  crowned  with  the  tower  of 
David ;  nearer  still.  Mount  Moriah,  with  the  gorgeous 
temjjle  of  the  God  of  Abraham,  but  built,  alas !  by  the 
child  of  Hagar,  and  not  by  Sarah's  chosen  one ;  close  to 
its  cedars  and  its  cypresses,  its  lofty  spires  and  airy  arches, 
the  moonlight  falls  upon  Bethesda's  pool ;  fiirther  on, 
entered  by  the  gate  of  St.  Stephen,  the  eye,  though  'tis 
the  noon  ot  night,  traces  with  ease  the  Street  of  Grief,  a 
long,  winding  ascent  to  a  vast  cupolaed  pile  that  now 
covers  ('alvary,  called  tlie  Street  of  Grief,  because  tlusre 
the  most  illustrious  of  the  human  as  well  as  of  the  Hebrew 
race,  the  descendant  of  King  David,  and  the  divine  Son 
of  the  most  favored  of  women,  twice  sank  under  that 
burdi'U  of  sulfcring  and  sliame,  which  is  now  throughout 
all  Christendom  the  emblem  of  triumph  and  of  honor. 


183  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Passing  over  groups  and  masses  of  houses  built  of  stone, 
with  terraced  roofs,  or  surmounted  with  small  domes, 
we  reach  the  hill  of  Salem,  where  Melchisedec  Ijuilt  his 
mystic  citadel ;  and  still  remains  the  hill  of  Scopas,  where 
Titus  gazed  upon  Jerusalem  on  the  eve  of  his  final  assault. 
Titus  destroyed  the  temple.  The  religion  of  Judea  has 
in  turn  subveited  the  fanes  which  were  raised  to  his 
father  and  to  himself  in  their  imperi;il  capital ;  and  the 
God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob,  is  now  wor- 
shipped before  every  altar  in  R(mie. 

The  moon  has  sunk  behind  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and 
the  stars  in  the  darker  sky  shine  doubly  bright  over  the 
sacred  city.  The  all-pervading  stillness  is  broken  by  a 
breeze  that  seems  to  have  traveled  over  the  plain  of  Sha- 
ron from  the  sea.  It  wails  among  the  tombs,  and  sighs 
among  the  cypress  groves.  The  palm-tree  trembles  as 
it  passes,  as  if  it  were  a  spirit  of  woe. 

Is  it  the  breeze  that  has  traveled  over  the  plain  of 
Sharon  from  the  sea?  Or  is  it  the  haunting  voice  of 
prophets  mourning  over  the  city  that  thej  could  not 
save?  Their  spirits  surely  would  linger  on  the  land 
where  their  Creator  had  deigned  to  dwell,  and  over 
whose  impending  fate  Omnipotence  had  shed  human 
tears.  Who  can  but  believe  that,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
from  the  summit  of  the  Ascension,  the  great  departed  of 
Israel  assemble  to  gaze  upon  the  battlements  of  their 
mystic  city  !  There  might  be  counted  heroes  and  sages, 
who  need  shrink  from  no  rivalry  with  the  brightest  and 
the  wisest  of  other  lands ;  but  the  lawgiver  of  the  time 
of  the  Pharaohs,  whose  laws  are  still  obeyed  ;  the  mon- 
arch whose  reign  has  ceased  for  three  thousand  years, 
but  whose  wisdom  is  a  proverb  in  all  nations  of  the  earth ; 
the  teacher  whose  doctrines  have  modeled  civilized 
Europe ; — the  greatest  of  legislators,  the  greatest  of  ad- 
ministrators, the  greatest  of  reformers ;— Avhat  race,  ex- 
tinct or  living,  can  produce  three  such  men  as  these? 

The  last  light  is  extinguished  in  the  village  of  Beth- 


NUMBER    SIX.  189 

any.  The  wailing  l)reeze  has  become  a  moaning  wind  ; 
a  white  fihu  spreads  over  the  purple  sky  ;  the  stars  arc 
veiled,  the  stare  are  hid ;  all  becomes  as  dark  as  the 
waters  of  Kedron  and  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  The 
tower  of  David  merges  into  obscurity  ;  no  longer  glitter 
the  minarets  of  the  mosque  of  Ouiar ;  Bethesda's  angelic 
waters,  the  gate  of  Stephen,  the  street  of  sacred  sorrow, 
the  hill  of  Salem,  and  the  heights  of  Scopas,  can  no  longer 
be  discerned.  Alone  in  the  increasing  darkness,  while 
the  very  line  of  the  walls  gradually  eludes  the  eye,  the 
church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  a  beacon-light. 


THE  FRENCHMAN  AND  THE  RATS. 

A  Frenchman  once,  who  was  a  merry  wight, 
Passing  to  town  from  Dover,  in  the  night, 
Near  the  roadside  an  alehouse  chanced  to  spy, 
And  being  rather  tired  as  well  as  dry, 
Resolved  to  enter ;  but  first  he  took  a  peep. 
In  hopes  a  supper  he  might  get,  and  cheap. 
He  enters ;  "  Hallo !  garoon,  if  you  please. 
Bring  me  a  leetel  bit  of  bread  and  cheese ; 
And  hallo  !  garoon,  a  pot  of  porter,  too !"  he  said, 
"  Vich  I  shall  take,  and  den  myself  to  bed." 

His  supper  done,  some  scraps  of  cheese  were  left, 

Wliifh  our  poor  Frenchman,  thinking  it  no  theft, 

Into  liis  pocket  put;  then  slowly  crept 

To  wished-for  bed ;  but  not  a  wink  he  slept — 

For  on  the  floor  some  sacks  of  flour  were  laid, 

To  which  the  rats  a  nightly  visit  paid. 

Our  hero  now  undressed,  popped  out  the  light, 

Put  on  his  cap  and  bade  the  world  good-night; 

But  first  his  breeches,  which  contained  the  fare, 

Under  his  pillow  he  had  placed  with  care. 

Sans  ceremonie,  soon  the  rats  all  ran, 

And  on  tlie  flour-sacks  greedily  began; 

At  which  they  gorged  themselves ;  then  smelling  round, 

Under  the  j)illo\v  soon  the  cheese  they  found; 

And  while  at  tliis  llu-y  all  n-guliug  sat, 

Their  happy  jaws  disturbed  the  Frenchman's  nap; 


190  ONE    UUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Who,  half-awake,  cries  out,  "  Hallo !  hallo ! 
Vat  is  dat  nibble  at  my  pillow  so  ? 
Ah !  'tis  one  big,  one  vei;y  big,  huge  rati 
Vat  is  it  dat  he  nibble,  nibble  at  ?" 

In  vain  our  little  hero  sought  repose ; 

Sometimes  the  vermin  galloped  o'er  his  nose; 

And  such  the  pranks  they  kept  up  all  the  night, 

That  he,  on  end,  antipodes  upright. 

Bawling  aloud,  called  stoutly  for  a  light. 

"  Hallo !  maison  !  gargon !     Here,  I  say ! 

Bring  me  the  bill  for  vat  I  have  to  pay  I" 

The  bill  was  brought,  and  to  his  great  surprise. 

Ten  shillings  was  the  charge :  he  scarce  believed  his  eyes. 

With  eager  haste,  he  quickly  runs  it  o"er. 

And  every  time  he  viewed  it  thought  it  more. 

"Vy,  zounds  and  zounds!"  he  cries,  "I  sail  no  pay, 

Vat!  charge  ten  shelangs  for  vat  I  have  mange? 

A  leetel  sop  of  porter,  dis  vile  bed, 

Vare  all  de  rats  do  run  about  my  head  ?" 

"  Plague  on  those  rats  !"  the  landlord  muttered  out ; 

"I  wish,  upon  my  word,  that  I  could  make  'em  scout: 

I'll  pay  him  well  that  can."     "  Vats  dat  you  say  ?" 

"  I'll  pay  him  well  that  can."     "Attend  to  me,  I  pray : 

Vill  you  dis  charge  forego,  vat  I  am  at, 

If  from  your  house  I  drive  away  de  rat?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  the  jolly  host  replies. 

"Ecoutez  done,  ami ;"  the  Frenchman  cries. 

"First  den— regardez,  if  you  please, 

Bring  to  dis  spot  a  leetel  bread  and  cheese : 

Eh  Uen  !  and  bring  a  pot  of  porter,  too ;  } 

And  den  invite  de  rats  to  sup  wid  you :  * 

And  after  dat— no  matter  dey  be  villing— 

For  vat  dey  eat,  you  charge  dem  just  ten  shelang; 

And  I  am  shure,  ven  dey  behold  de  score, 

Dey'U  quit  your  house,  and  never  come  no  more.'* 


farf  ^fhttl|. 


JEclcTl  of  the  Fotlt  JVizTribers  of 
" lOO  Choice  Selections"  contcuined, 
in  this  -volTune  is  paged  sepcurcttely , 
and  the  Inde:s:  is  made  to  corres- 
pond ther-eTvith.    See  explanation  on 

first  page  of  Contents. 

The  entire  hooh  contaiTxs  nearly 
lOOO  pages. 


lOO 
CHOICE     SELECTIONS. 

ISTo.    7. 


CHEER  UP. 

Cheer  up  and  bear  up !  life  should  be  gay, 

Not  marred  by  trouble  and  sorrow, 
Think  not  of  the  misery  clouding  to-day. 

But  think  of  a  brighter  to-morrow. 
Cheer  up,  and  remember  for  one  who  is  brave, 

And  cheerful  and  honest  and  true, 
Earth  has  no  sorrow  this  side  of  the  grave; 

She  may  crush,  but  she  cannot  subdue ! 

Cheer  up  and  bear  up!   friends  may  deceive  you, 

Poverty,  even,  may  knock  at  your  door; 
Heaven,  perhaps,  in  her  wisdom  bereave  you, 

As  mortal  was  never  afflicted  before  ; 
Your  future  may  seem  to  you  dreary  and  wild 

As  a  bark  on  a  tempest-tossed  ocean ; 
Bui  bravely  bear  up,  and  Heaven  her  child 

Will  guard  with  a  mother's  devotion ! 

Then  cheer  up  and  bear  up,  and  laugh  at  old  Fate; 

Let  her  wreak  on  your  head  what  she  will ; 
With  noble  and  fearless  forliearance  await 

Every  blow,  every  loss,  every  ill. 
Hope  on,  and  remember  the  dreariest  way 

Has  nothing  of  sadness  or  sorrow 
For  the  bravi!  heart  that  smiles  at  Ihe  ills  of  to-day, 

And  hopes  for  a  brighter  to-morrow  I 

'    7 


ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS. 


BY  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  RIVER.— C.  P.  Cranch. 

Through  the  gray  willows  the  bleak  winds  are  ^a^dng 
Here  on  the  shore  with  its  driftwood  and  sands; 

Over  the  river  the  lilies  are  waving, 

Bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  Orient  lands ; 
Over  the  river,  the  wide,  dark  river, 
Spring-time  and  Summer  are  blooming  forever. 

Here,  all  alone  on  the  rocks  I  am  sitting, 

Sitting  and  waiting — my  comrades  all  gone — 

Shadows  of  mystery  drearily  flitting 
Over  the  surf  with  its  sorrowful  moan, 
Over  the  river,  the  strange,  cold  river, 
Ah!  must  I  wait  for  the  Boatman  forever? 

Wife  and  children  and  friends  were  around  me ; 

Labor  and  rest  were  as  wings  to  my  soul ; 
Honor  and  love  were  the  laurels  that  crowned  me; 

Little  I  recked  how  the  dark  waters  roll. 

But  the  deep  river,  the  gray,  misty  river, 

All  that  I  lived  for  has  taken  forever! 

Silently  came  a  black  boat  o'er  the  billows ; 

Stealthily  grated  the  keel  on  the  sand ; 
Rustling  footsteps  were  heard  through  the  willows, 

There  the  dark  Boatman  stood,  waving  his  hand, 

AVhisp'ring,  "I  come,  o'er  the  shadowy  river; 

She  who  is  dearest  must  leave  thee  forever." 

Suns  that  were  brightest  and  skies  that  were  bluest. 
Darkened  and  paled  in  the  message  he  bore. 

Year  after  year  went  the  fondest,  the  truest, 
Following  that  beckoning  hand  to  the  shore, 
Down  to  the  river,  the  cold,  grim  river. 
Over  whose  waters  they  vanished  forever. 

Yet  not  in  visions  of  grief  have  I  wandered ; 

Still  have  I  toiled,  though  my  ardors  have  flown. 
Labor  is  manhood,  and  life  is  but  squandered 

Dreaming  vague  dreams  of  the  future  alone. 

Yet  from  the  tides  of  the  mystical  river 

Voices  of  spirits  are  whispering  ever. 

Lonely  and  old  in  the  dusk  I  am  waiting, 

Till  the  dark  Boatman,  with  soft,  muffled  oar. 

Glides  o'er  the  waves,  and  I  hear  the  keel  grating, 
See  the  dim,  beckoning  hand  on  the  shore, 
Wooing  me  over  the  weku^ming  river 
To  gardens  and  homes  that  are  shining  forever; 

Atlantic  Monilibf 


NUMBER    SEVKN. 


ELOQUENCE  AND  LOGIC— W.  C.  Preston. 

Our  popular  institutions  demand  a  talent  for  speaking,  ana 
create  a  taste  for  it.  Liberty  and  eUxiueuc-e  are  united,  in 
all  ages.  Where  the  sovereign  power  is  found  in  the  public 
mind  and  the  public  heart,  eloquence  is  the  obvious  approach 
to  it.  Power  and  honor,  and  all  that  can  attract  ardent  and 
aspiring  natures,  attend  it.  The  noblest  instinct  is  to  propa- 
gate the  spirit, — "  to  make  our  mind  the  mind  of  other  men," 
and  wield  the  sceptre  in  the  realms  of  passion.  In  the  art 
of  speaking,  as  in  all  other  arts,  a  just  combination  of  those 
qualities  necessary  to  the  end  proposed,  is  the  true  rule  of 
ta.ste.  Excess  is  always  wrong.  Too  much  ornament  is  an 
exil, — too  little,  also.  The  one  may  impede  the  progress  of 
the  argument,  or  divert  attention  from  it,  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  extraneous  matter;  the  other  may  exhausi  attention, 
or  weary  by  monotony.  Elegance  is  in  a  just  medium.  The 
safer  side  to  err  on,  is  that  of  abundance, — as  profusion  is 
better  than  poverty;  as  it  is  better  to  be  detained  by  the 
beauties  of  a  landscape  than  by  the  weariness  of  a  desert. 

It  is  commonly,  but  mistakenly  supposed,  that  the  enforc- 
ing of  truth  is  most  successfully  effected  by  a  cold  and  for- 
mal logic;  but  the  subtleties  of  dialectics  and  the  forms  of 
logic  may  play  as  fantastic  tricks  with  truth,  as  the  most  po- 
tent magic  of  Fancy.  The  attempt  to  apply  mathematical 
precision  to  moral  truths  is  always  a  failure,  and  generally  a 
dangerous  one.  If  man,  and  especially  masses  of  men,  were 
purely  intellectual,  then  cold  reason  alone  would  be  influen- 
tial to  convince ;  but  our  nature  is  most  complex,  and  many 
of  the  great  truths  which  it  most  concerns  us  to  know,  are 
taught  us  by  our  instincts,  our  sentiments,  our  impulses,  and 
our  passions.  Even  in  regard  to  the  highest  and  holiest  of 
all  truth,  to  know  which  concerns  us  here  and  hereafter,  we 
are  not  permitted  to  apjiroach  its  investigation  in  the  confi- 
dence of  proud  and  erring  reason,  but  are  taught  to  become 
as  little  children,  before  we  are  worthy  to  receive  it. 

It  is  to  this  complex  nature  that  the  speaker  addresses 
liimself,  and  the  degree  of  power  with  wliich  all  the  (ilements 
are  evoked,  is  the  criterion  of  the  orator,      liis  business,  to 

49* 


10  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

be  sure,  is  to  con^'ince,  but  more  to  persuade ;  and,  most  of 
all,  to  inspire  with  noble  and  generous  passions.  It  is  the 
cant  of  criticism,  in  all  ages,  to  make  a  distinction  between 
logic  and  eloquence,  and  to  stigmatize  the  latter  as  declama- 
tion. Logic  ascertains  the  weight  of  an  argument,  eloquence 
gives  it  momentum.  The  diflerence  is  between  the  vis  iner- 
tias of  a  mass  of  metal,  and  the  same  ball  hurled  from  the 
cannon's  mouth.  Eloquence  is  an  argument  alive  and  in 
motion, — the  statue  of  Pygmalion  inspired  with  vitality. 


YARN  OF  THE  "NANCY  BELL."— W.  S.  Gilbert. 

Twas  on  the  shores  that  round  the  coast 

From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 
That  I  found  alone,  on  a  j)iece  of  stone, 

An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long, 

And  weedy  and  long  was  he. 
And  I  heard  this  wight  on  the  shore  recite 

In  a  singular  minor  key: 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  a  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

And  he  shook  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair, 

Till  I  really  felt  afraid, 
For  I  couldn't  help   thinking  the  man  had  been 
drinking, 

And  so  I  simply  said : 

"Oh,  elderly  man,  it's  little  I  know 

Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea. 
And  I'll  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 

How  you  can  possibly  be 

"  At  once  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold. 

And  the  mate  of  the  Jfancy  brig. 
And  a  bo'sun  tight  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  \X 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trowsers,  which 

Is  a  trick  all  seamen  larn, 
And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid, 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn  ; 

"  'Twas  on  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell, 

That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea, 
And  there  on  a  reef  we  came  to  grief, 

Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

"And  pretty  nigh  all  of  the  crew  was  drowned, 

(There  was  seventy-seven  o'  soul,) 
And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy's  men 

Said  '  Here ! '  to  the  muster  roll. 

"  There  was  me  and  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold. 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 
And  the  bo'sun  tight,  and  the  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  For  a  month  we'd  neither  wittles  nor  drink, 

Till  a  hungry  we  did  feel. 
So  we  drawed  a  lot,  and  accordin'  shot 

The  Ciiptain  for  our  meal. 

"  The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy's  mate, 

And  a  delicate  disli  he  made; 
Then  oiu-  appetite  witli  the  midshipmite 

We  seven  survivors  stayed. 

"And  then  we  murdered  the  bo'sun  tight. 

And  he  much  resembled  pig; 
Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me, 

On  the  crew  of  the  Ciiptain's  gig. 

"Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left, 

And  the  delicate  question, '  Which 
Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle?'  arose. 

And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

"For  T  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did, 

And  the  cook  he  worshipped  me; 
But  we'd  ]3otli  be  blowed  if  we'd  either  be  stowed 

In  the  other  chap's  hold,  you  see. 

"'I'll  be  eat  if  yon  dines  off  me,'  says  Tom; 

'Yes,  that,'  says  T,  'you'll  be,— 
'I'm  l)oi1(>(l  if  Tdie,  my  friend,'  quoth  I, 

And  '  Exactly  fc(j,'  quoth  he. 


12  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

"  Says  he, '  Dear  James,  to  murder  me 

Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do. 
For  don't  you  see  that  you  can't  cook  me. 

While  I  can — and  will — cook  you  ! ' 

"So  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 

And  the  pepper  in  portions  true, 
(Which  he  ne'er  forg^ot,)  and  some  chopped  shalot, 

And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 

"'Come  here,'  says  he,  with  a  proper  pride, 

Which  his  smiling  features  tell, 
"Twill  soothing  be  if  I  let  j^ou  see 

How  extremely  nice  you'll  smell.' 

"And  he  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  round, 
And  ho  sniffed  at  the  foaming  froth; 

When    I    ups    with  his  heels,  and  smothers  his 
squeals 
In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

"And  I  eat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less. 

And — as  I  eating  be 
The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I  almost  drops, 

For  a  wessel  in  sight  I  see. 


"And  I  never  larf,  and  I  never  smile. 

And  I  never  lark  nor  play; 
But  I  sit  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 

I  have,  which  is  to  say  : 

" '  Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig. 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite. 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig! ' " 


THE  OLD  MAN  IN  THE  ^lODEL  CIIUECH.* 

John  H.  Yates. 

Well,  wife,  I've  found  the  model  church — I  worshipped  there 

to-day ! 
It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times  before  my  hair  was 

gray. 

*See  •■  The  Old  Man  in  the  Stylish  Church,"  So.  0,  page  42. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  13 

The  meetin'  house  was  fixed  up  more  than  they  were  years 

ago, 
Uut  theu  I  felt  when  I  went  in  it  wasn't  built  for  show. 

Tlie  sexton  didn't  seat  me  away  back  by  the  door ; 
He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as  old  and  poor; 
He  must  have  been  a  Christian,  for  he  led  me  through 
The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church,  to  find  a  place  and 
pew. 

I  wish  you'd  heard  that  singin' — it  had  the  old-time  ring;     • 
Tae  preacher  Siiid,  with  trumjjet  voice,  "  Let  all  the  people 

sing!" 
The  tune  was  Coronation,  and  the  music  upward  rolled, 
Till  I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  striking  all  their  harps  of 

gold. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away;    my  spirit  caught  tlio 

fire  ; 
I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice  with  that  melodious 

choir, 
And  sang  as  in  my  youthful  days,  "Let  angels  prostrate  fall, 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  Him  Lord  of  :dl." 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once  more  ; 
I  felt   like  some   wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a  glimpse  of 

shore ; 
I  almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  weather-beaten  form. 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from  the  storm. 

The preachW ?  Well,  I  can't  just  tell  all  the  preacher  said; 
I  know  it  wasn't  written ;  I  know  it  wasn't  read ; 
He  hadn't  time  to  read  it,  for  the  lightnin'  of  his  eye 
Went  iiashin'  along  from  jjew  to  pew,  nor  passed"  a  sinner 
by. 

The  sermon  wasn't  flowerj'-,  'twas  simple  gospel  truth; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me,  it  fitted  hopeful  youth. 
Twas  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed; 
'Twas  full  of  invitations  to  Christ,  and  not  to  creed. 


"1 


The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in  Jews; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  in  the  finest  pews, 
Ami — though  I  can't  see  very  well — I  saw  the  falling  tear 
'That  told  me  hell  was  someways  off,  and  heaven  very  near. 

How  swift  tlie  t^olden  moments  fled  witliin  tliat  lK)ly  j)lacc! 
How  bri.Lrhtly  beamed  the  light  of  heaven  frum  every  hap- 
py k.<si ! 


KK 


.•* 


14  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Again  I  longed  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall  meet 

with  friend, 
"  Where  congregations  ne'er  break  up,  and  Sabbaths  have  no 

end." 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister — that  congregation  too — 

In  that  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine  from  heaven's 

blue. 
I  doubt  not  I'll  remember,  beyond  life's  evening  gray, 
The  happy  hour  of  worship  in  that  model  church  to-day. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the  victory  be  won; 
The  shinin'  goal  is  just  ahead ;  the  race  is  nearly  run. 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearin',  they  are  throngin'  to  the  shore 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no  more. 


NOW. 

Arise!  for  the  day  is  passing 

While  you  lie  dreaming  on ; 
Your  brothers  are  cased  in  armor, 

And  forth  to  the  fight  are  gone ; 
Your  place  in  the  ranks  awaits  you ; 

Each  man  has  a  part  to  play ; 
The  past  and  the  future  are  nothing 

In  the  face  of  the  stern  to-day. 

Arise  from  your  dreams  of  the  future, 

Of  gaining  a  hard-fought  field, 
Of  storming  the  airy  fortress. 

Of  bidding  the  giant  yield ; 
Your  future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor;  (God  grant  it  may!) 
But  your  arm  will  never  be  stronger, 

Or  needed  as  now, — to-day. 

Arise !    If  the  past  detain  you. 

Her  sunshine  and  storm  forget ; 
No  chains  so  unworthy  to  hold  you 

As  those  of  a  vain  regret ; 
Sad  or  bright,  she  is  lifeless  ever; 

Cast  her  phantom  arms  away, 
Nor  look  back,  save  to  learn  the  lesson 

Of  a  nobler  strife  to-day  ! 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  15 

Arise !  for  the  hour  is  passing ; 

The  sound  that  you  dimly  hear 
Ts  your  enemy  marching  to  battle; 

Rise!  rise!  for  the  foe  is  near. 
Stay  not  to  brighten  j'our  weapons, 

Or  the  hour  will  strike  at  last, 
And  from  dreams  of  a  coming  battle 

You  will  wake  and  find  it  past. 


JOHNNY    BARTHOLOMEW.— Thomas  Dunn  English. 

The  journals  this  morning  are  full  of  a  tale 
Of  a  terrible  ride  through  a  tunnel  by  rail ; 
And  people  are  called  on  to  note  and  admire 
How  a  hundred  or  more,  through  the  smoke-cloud  and  fire, 
AVere  borne  from  all  peril  to  limbs  and  to  lives, — 
Mothers  saved  to  their  children,  and  husbands  to  wives. 
But  of  him  who  performed  such  a  notable  deed^ 
Quite  little  the  journalists  give  us  to  read. 
In  truth,  of  this  hero  so  plucky  and  bold. 
There  is  nothing  except,  in  few  syllables  told, 
His  name,  which  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Away  in  Nevada — they  don't  tell  us  where, 
Nor  does  it  much  matter — a  railway  is  there. 
Which  winds  in  and  out  through  the  cloven  ravines, 
With  glimpses  at  times  of  the  wildest  of  scenes — 
Now  passing  a  bridge  seeming  fine  as  a  thread. 
Now  shooting  past  cliff's  that  impend  o'er  the  head, 
Now  plunging  some  black-throated  tunnel  within, 
Whose  darkness  is  roused  at  the  clatter  and  din ; 
And  ran  every  day  with  its  train  o'er  the  road, 
An  engine  that  steadily  dragged  on  its  load. 
And  was  driven  by  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

With  throttle-valve  down,  he  was  slowing  the  train. 
While  the  sparks  fell  around  and  behind  him  like  rain, 
As  he  came  to  a  spot  wliere  a  curve  to  the  riglit 
Brought  the  black,  yawning  mouth  of  a  tunnel  in  sight. 
And  peering  ahead  with  a  far-seeing  ken, 
Felt  a  quick  sense  of  danger  come  over  him  then. 
Was  a  train  on  the  track?  No!  A  peril  as  dire — 
The  further  extreme  of  the  tunnel  on  fire! 
And  the  volume  of  smoke,  as  it  gathered  and  rolled, 
Shook  fearful  dismay  from  each  dun-colored  fold, 
But  daunted  not  Johnny  Bartholomew. 


16  ONE    HUNDBED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Beat  faster  his  heart,  though  its  current  stood  still, 

And  his  nerves  felt  a  jar  but  no  tremulous  thrill ; 

And  his  eyes  keenly  gleamed  through  their  partly  closed 

lashes, 
And  his  lips — not  with  fear — took  the  color  of  ashes. 
"  If  we  falter,  these  people  behind  us  are  dead ! 
So  close  the  doors,  fireman — we'll  send  her  ahead ! 
Crowd  on  the  steam  till  she  rattles  and  swings! 
Open  the  throttle-valve!     Give  her  her  wings!" 
i'-^houted  he  from  his  post  in  the  engineer's  room, 
Driving  onward  perchance  to  a  terrible  doom. 

This  man  they  call  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Firm  grasping  the  bell-rope  and  holding  his  breath, 
On,  on  through  the  Vale  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
On,  on  through  that  horrible  cavern  of  hell, 
Through  flames  that  arose  and  through  timbers  that  fell, 
Through  the  eddying  smoke  and  the  serpents  of  fire 
That  writhed  and  that  hissed  in  their  anguish  and  ire, 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  like  the  wild  tempest's  blast, 
To  tiie  free  air  beyond  them  in  safety  they  ]xtssed ! 
While  the  clang  of  the  bell  and  the  steam  pipe's  shrill  yell 
Told  the  joy  at  escape  from  that  underground  hell. 
Of  the  man  they  called  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Did  the  passengers  get  up  a  ser^^ce  of  plate? 
Did  some  oily-tongued  orator  at  the  man  prate? 
Women  kiss  him?    Young  children  cling  fast  to  his  knees! 
Stout  men  in  their  rapture  his  brown  fingere  squeeze? 
And  where  was  he  born ?    Is  he  handsome?     Has  he 
A  wife  for  his  bosom,  a  child  for  his  knee? 
Is  he  young?    Is  he  old?    Is  he  tall?    Is  he  short? 
Well,  ladies,  the  jonrnnh  tell  naught  of  the  sort, 
And  all  that  they  give  us  about  him  to-day 
A-fter  telling  the  talc  in  a  commonplace  way. 
Is — the  man's  name  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Hearth  and  Home. 


i:\IITATION. 

When  I  was  the  dirtiest  little  towhead — and  I  am  sure 
that  dirt  is  no  disgrace — that  tramped  to  the  village  school, 
a  traveling  phrenologist  declared  that  my  bump  of  imitation 
covered  two-thirds  of  my  craniimi,  and  as  the  days  waned 


NUKBEK    SEVEN.  17 

the  afore  said  bump  fully  developed  itself.  My  father  used 
to  tell  me  that 

"  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime," 

and  I  at  once  proceeded  to  imitate  great  men,  that  my  exist- 
euce  might  be  as  sublime  as  anybody's. 

I  began  on  Washington,  upon  whose  acts  I  enlarged  some- 
what. I  took  my  little  hatchet,  crept  to  the  young  orchard 
of  cherry  and  peach,  and  leveled  it  to  the  ground.  My  bump 
of  imitation  was  at  work.  My  sire  discovered  the  deed,  and 
when  he  asked  me  regarding  the  authorship,  I  forgot  a  por- 
tion of  the  Washington  story,  and  swore  I  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  But  my  "little  hatchet"  condemned  me. 
Particles  of  the  soft  young  bark  adhered  to  it,  and  you 
wouldn't  take  the  application  of  peach  and  cherry  that  I  got 
for  all  the  Uves  of  G.  W.  pubhshed  since  the  death  of  old 
Weems. 

Then  I  resolved  to  imitate  Alexander.  We  had  a  fine  colt, 
as  fiery  as  Vesuvius,  and  as  untamed  as  Mazeppa's  Tartar. 
He  should  be  Bucephalus,  I  his  Alexander.  While  the  old 
folks  were  ab!«nt,  I  bridled  the  colt  with  difliculty,  led  him 
from  the  stable,  and  drove  my  spurs  into  his  flanks.  He 
snorted;  his  posterior  extremities  shot  upward  at  the  sun, 
and  I  described  a  faultless  parabola  over  his  head, .  Buceph- 
alus had  conquered  his  Alexander.  Ancient  history  had 
been  reversed.  An  hour  afterward  they  picked  me  up  with 
a  broken  arm,  a  dislocated  collar-bone,  almost  scalped,  and  a 
nose  knocked  forty  miles  for  Sunday.  The  physicians  hoped, 
for  my  own  gof)d,  that  the  bump  of  imitation  had  been 
spoiled,  but  subsequent  actions  declared  its  faculties  imim- 
paired. 

When  quite  young,  father  had  impressed  upon  my  child- 
ish mind  the  life  of  Benjuniin  Franklin,  how  worthy  of  im- 
itation it  was,  and  when  I  recovered  from  the  Bucephalian 
exploit,  I  resolved  to  please  the  old  man  by  imitating  Ben. 
I  made  a  kite,  painted  V>.  F.'s  nice  sayings  all  over  it,  stole 
the  door  key  and  went  out  into  the  fields  to  jerk  the  light- 
ning from  the  clouds.  I  suctceeded;  a  little  flash  of  fire  ran 
down  the  string  and  knocked  me  senseless.    For  hours  they 


18  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

thought  me  dead;  but  I  recovered  with  a  hairless  cranium 
I  wasn't  done  with  Franklin  yet.  You  know  he  walked 
through  Philadelphia  once  with  six  loaves  of  bread  under 
his  arm,  three  loaves  in  his  mouth,  and  a  handful  of  ginger 
cakes.  I  resolved  to  thus  imitate  the  postmaster  sage :  I  got 
my  sister  to  stand  in  the  door  and  play  the  young  lady  who 
laughed  at  Ben.  But  where  was  I  to  get  the  bread?  Our 
cupboard  happened  to  be  as  bare  as  Mother  Hubbard's  fam- 
ous larder.  A  lucky  thought  struck  me.  I  resorted  to  the 
bakery,  sent  the  baker  into  the  oven  to  see  if  the  mince  pies 
were  done,  gobbled  my  paraphernalia  and  started.  I  tell 
you  I  cut  a  figure  going  down  town  with  six  loaves  of  bread 
under  my  arms,  and  sister  shamed  me  just  like  the  girl 
shamed  Franklin.  Suddenly  somebody  cried  "  Stop  Thief," 
and  I  saw  the  baker  coming  at  me.  I  ran  under  the  bed  and 
let  the  curtain  down,  but  it  was  no  use.  The  brute  broke  up 
the  didactic  entertainment,  and  it  cost  our  folks  about  fifty 
dollars  to  keep  me  from  going  with  the  sheriff.  It  taught 
them  a  lesson,  however,  to  furnish  their  offspring  with  bre:id. 
That  moral  saved  me  a  birching.  The  bump  of  imitation 
was  still  "  up  to  snuff." 

Then  I  fell  back  on  Columbus  for  want  of  ftiodern  exam- 
ples. I  read  how  he  made  the  egg  stand  on  end.  It  was 
near  Easter,  and  the  boys  had  laid  in  the  usual  supply  of 
ovate  "  bivalves."  I  bet  that  I  could  make  an  egg  stand  on 
its  beam  ends.  They  staked  a  dozen  of  bivalves  on  the  pro- 
position. I  simply  played  Columbus,  and  the  little  rascals 
swore  it  wasn't  fair.  I  reached  for  the  stakes,  and  got  them, 
too — all  over  me.  I  was  a  walking  specimen  of  unadulter- 
ated egg-nog.  Then  they  licked  me,  and  that  dilapidated 
ear  had  been  whole  were  it  not  for  Columbus'  fooiishness. 
The  imitation  bump  will  never  leave  me. 


THE  WEAVER.— William  H.  Burleigh. 

Ceaselessly  the  weaver,  Time, 

Sitting  at  his  mystic  loom, 
Keeps  his  arrowy  shuttle  flying. 
Every  thread  aiiears  our  dying — 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  19 

And,  with  melancholy  chime, 
Very  low  and  sad  withal, 
Sinsis  his  solemn  madrigal 

As  he  weaves  our  web  of  doom. 

"Mortals!"  thus  he,  weaving,  sings, 
"Bright  or  dark  the  web  shall  be, 

As  ve  will  it ;  all  the  tissues 

Blending  in  harmonious  issues, 
Or  discordant  colorings ; 

Time  the  shuttle  drives ;  but  you 

Give  to  every  thread  its  hue, 
And  elect  your  destiny. 

"God  bestowed  the  shining  warp, 

Fill  it  with  as  bright  a  woof; 
And  the  whole  shall  glow  divinely, 
As  if  wrought  by  angels  tinely, 

To  the  music  of  the  harp ; 
And  the  lilended  colors  be 
Like  perfected  harmony. 

Keeping  evil  things  aloof. 

"En\y,  malice,  pride,  and  hate, — 

Foulest  progeny  of  sin — 
Let  not  these  the  weft  entangle. 
With  their  blind  and  furious  wrangle, 

Marring  your  diviner  fate ; 
But  with  love  and  deeds  of  good 
Be  the  web  throughout  endued, 

And  the  perfect  ye  shall  win." 

Thus  he  singeth  very  low. 

Sitting  at  his  mystic  loom; 
And  his  shuttle  still  is  flying— 
Thread  by  thread  anears  our  dying, 

Grows  our  shroud  by  every  throw; 
And  the  hues  of  woe  or  heaven 
To  each  thread  by  us  are  given. 

As  he  weaves  our  web  of  doom. 


A  PASTOR  WANTED. 

We  have  bcMMi  without  a  pastor 
Some  eighteen  months  or  more; 

And  thougli  candidates  are  plenty,- 
Wu've  had  at  least  a  score, 


20  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS. 

All  of  them  "tip-top"  preachers, 
Or  so  their  letters  ran — 

We're  just  as  far  as  ever 

Froiu  settling  on  the  man.    . 

The  first  who  came  among  us 

By  no  means  was  the  worst, 
But  then  we  didn't  think  of  him, 

Because  he  was  the  Jird. 
It  being  quite  the  custom 

To  sacrifice  a  few 
Before  the  Church  in  earnest 

Determines  what  to  do. 

There  was  a  smart  young  fellow, 

With  serious,  earnest  way, 
Who,  but  for  one  great  blunder, 

Had  surely  won  the  day ; 
Who  left  so  good  impression, 

On  Monday  one  or  two 
Went  round  among  the  people 

To  see  if  he  would  do. 

The  pious,  godly  portion 

Had  not  a  fault  to  find ; 
His  clear  and  searching  preaching 

They  thought  the  very  kind ; 
And  all  went  smooth  and  jileasant 

Until  they  heard  the  views 
Of  some  influential  sinners 

Who  rent  the  highest  pews. 

On  these  his  pungent  dealing 

INIade  but  a  sorry  hit ; 
The  coat  of  Gospel  teaching 

Was  quite  too  tight  a  fit. 
Of  course  his  fate  was  settled; — 

Attend,  ye  parsons  all ! 
And  preach  to  please  the  sinners, 

If  you  would  get  a  call. 

Next  came  a  spruce  young  dandy; 

He  wore  his  hair  too  long ; 
Another's  coat  was  shabby, 

And  his  voice  not  over  strong; 
And  one  New  Haven  student 

Was  worse  than  all  of  those,— 
We  couldn't  hear  the  sermon 

For  thinking  of  his  nose. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  21 

Then,  wearying  of  candidates, 

We  looked  the  country  t)irough 
'Mid  doctors  and  professors. 

To  find  one  that  would  do. 
And  after  much  discussion 

On  who  should  bear  the  ark, 
"With  tolerable  agreement 

We  fixed  on  Dr.  Parke. 

Here  then  we  tliought  it  settled, 

But  were  amazed  to  find 
Our  flattering  invitation 

Kespectfully  decUned. 
We  turned  to  Dr.  Hopkins 

To  help  us  in  the  lurch, 
AVho  strangely  thought  that  college 

Had  claims  above  the  Church. 

Next  we  dispatched  committees, 

By  twos  and  threes,  to  urge 
The  labors  for  a  Sabbath 

Of  the  Rev.  Shallow  Splurge. 
He  came — a  marked  sensation, 

So  wonderful  his  style. 
Followed  the  creaking  of  his  boots 

As  he  passed  up  the  aisle. 

His  tones  were  so  affecting, 

His  gestures  so  divine, 
A  lady  fainted  in  the  hymn 

Before  the  second  line. 
And  on  that  day  he  gave  us, 

In  accents  clear  and  loud. 
The  greatest  prayer  e'er  addressed 

To  an  enlightened  crowd. 

He  preached  a  double  sermon, 

And  gave  us  angel's  food 
On  such  a  lovely  topic, 

"The  joys  of  solitude," — 
All  full  of  sweet  descriptions 

(){  flowers  and  pearly  streams. 
Of  warbling  birds  and  moonlit  groves 

And  golden  sunset  beams. 


& 


Of  faith  and  true  repentance 
He  nothing  liad  to  sjiy; 

He  rouiKlfd  all  the  corners, 

And  HUioothcd  the  rugged  way; 


22  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Managed  with  great  adroitness 
To  entertain  and  please, 

And  leave  the  sinner's  conscience 
Completely  at  its  ease. 

Six  hundred  is  the  salary 

We  gave  in  former  days ; 
We  thought  it  very  liberal, 

And  found  it  hard  to  raise ; 
But  when  we  took  the  paper 

We  had  no  need  to  urge 
To  raise  a  cool  two  thousand 

For  the  Rev.  Shallow  Splurge. 

In  vain  were  all  our  efforts — 

We  had  no  chance  at  all — 
We  found  ten  city  churches 

Had  given  him  a  call  ; 
And  he,  in  prayerful  waiting, 

Was  keeping  all  in  tow ; 
But  where  they  bid  the  highest 

'Twas  whispered  he  would  go. 

And  now,  good  Christian  brothers,  ' 

We  ask  your  earnest  prayers 
That  God  may  send  a  shepherd 

To  guide  our  church  affairs. 
*  With  this  clear  understanding  : 

A  man  to  meet  our  views 
Must  preach  to  please  the  sinners, 

And  fill  the  vacant  pews. 


ONE  NICHE  THE  HIGHEST.— Elihu  BuruiTA 

The  scene  opens  with  a  view  of  the  great  Natural  Bridge 
in  Virginia.  There  are  three  or  four  lads  standing  in  the 
channel  below,  looking  up  with  awe  to  that  vast  arch  of  un- 
hewn rock^,  which  the  Almighty  bridged  over  those  ever- 
lasting hutments,  "  when  the  morning  stars  sung  together." 
The  little  piece  of  sky  spanning  those  measureless  piers  is 
full  of  stars,  although  it  is  mid-day. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  23 

It  is  almost  five  hundred  feet  from  where  they  stand,  up 
those  perpendicular  bulwarks  of  limestone,  to  the  key-rock 
of  that  vast  arch,  which  appears  to  them  only  of  the  size  of 
a  man's  hand.  The  silence  of  death  is  rendered  more  im- 
pressive by  the  little  stream  that  falls  from  rock  to  rock  down 
the  channel.  The  sun  is  darkened,  and  the  boys  have  un- 
consciously uncovered  their  heads,  as  if  standing  in  the 
presence-chamber  of  the  Majesty  of  the  whole  earth. 

At  last  this  feeling  begins  to  wear  away;  they  begin  to 
look  around  them ;  they  find  that  others  have  been  there 
before  them.  They  see  the  names  of  hundreds  cut  in  the 
limestone  butments.  A  new  feeling  comes  over  their  young 
hearts,  and  their  knives  are  in  their  hands  in  an  instant. 
"What  man  has  done,  man  can  do,"  is  their  watchword,  while 
they  draw  themselves  up,  and  carve  their  names  a  foot  above 
those  of  a  hundred  full-grown  men  who  have  been  there 
before  them. 

They  are  all  satisfied  with  this  feat  of  physical  exertion, 
except  one,  whose  example  illustrates  perfectly  the  forgotten 
truth,  that  there  is  no  royal  road  to  intellectual  eminence. 
This  ambitious  youth  sees  a  name  just  above  his  reach — a 
name  that  will  be  green  in  the  memory  of  the  world,  when 
those  of  Alexander,  Cajsar,  and  Bonaparte  shall  be  lost  in 
oblivion.    It  was  the  name  of  Washington. 

Before  he  marched  with  Braddock  to  that  fatal  field,  he 
had  been  there,  and  left  his  name  a  foot  above  all  his  pre- 
decessors. It  was  a  glorious  thought  of  the  boy,  to  write  his 
name  side  by  side  with  that  of  the  great  father  of  his  coun- 
try. He  grasped  his  knife  with  a  firmer  hand,  and  clinging 
to  a  little  jutting  crag,  he  cuts  a  gain  into  the  limestone, 
about  a  foot  above  where  he  stands ;  he  then  reaches  up  and 
cuts  another  for  his  hands. 

'Tis  a  dangerous  adventure ;  but  as  he  puts  his  feet  and 
hands  into  those  gains,  and  draws  himself  up  carefully  to 
his  full  length,  he  finds  himself  a  foot  above  every  name 
chronicled  in  that  mighty  wall.  While  his  companions  are 
regarding  him  with  concern  and  admiration,  he  cuts  his 
name  in  rude  caiiitals,  large  and  deep  into  that  flinty  album. 

Ilis  knife  is  still  in  his  hand,  and  strength  in  his  sinews, 
and  a  new  created  aspiration  in  his  heart.      Again  he  cuts 


24  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

another  niche,  and  again  he  carves  his  name  in  larger  cap- 
itals. This  is  not  enough.  Heedless  of  the  entreaties  of 
his  companions,  he  cuts  and  climbs  again.  The  gradations 
of  his  ascending  scale  grow  wider  apart.  He  measures  his 
length  at  every  gain  he  cuts.  The  voices  of  his  friends  wax 
weaker  and  weaker,  till  their  words  are  finally  lost  on  his 
ear. 

He  now,  for  the  first  time,  cast  a  look  beneath  him.  Had 
that  glance  lasted  a  moment,  that  moment  would  have  been 
his  last.  He  clings  with  a  con\ailsive  shudder  to  his  little 
niche  in  the  rock.  An  awful  abyss  awaits  his  almost  certain 
fell.  He  is  faint  with  severe  exertion,  and  trembling  from 
the  sudden  view  of  the  dreadful  destruction  to  which  he  is 
exposed.  His  knife  is  half  worn  away  to  the  haft.  He  can 
hear  the  voices,  but  not  the  words,  of  his  terror-stricken 
companions  below.  What  a  moment!  What  a  meagre 
chance  to  escape  destruction !  There  is  no  retracing  his 
steps.  It  is  impossible  to  put  his  hand  into  the  same  niche 
with  his  feet,  and  retain  his  slender  hold  a  moment. 

His  companions  instantly  j^erceive  this  new  and  fearful 
dilemma,  and  await  his  iiill  with  emotions  that "  freeze  their 
young  blood."  He  is  too  high,  too  faint,  to  ask  for  his  father 
and  mother,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  to  come  and  witness 
or  avert  his  destruction.  But  one  of  his  companions  antici- 
pates his  desire.  Swift  as  the  wind,  he  bounds  down  the 
channel,  and  the  situation  of  the  fated  boy  is  told  upon  his 
father's  hearth-stone. 

Minutes  of  almost  eternal  length  roll  on,  and  there  are 
hundreds  standing  in  that  rocky  channel,  and  hundreds  on 
the  bridge  above,  all  holding  their  breath,  ajid  awaiting  the 
fearful  catastrophe.  The  poor  boy  hears  the  hum  of  new 
and  numerous  voices  both  above  and  below.  He  can  distin- 
guish the  tones  of  his  father,  who  is  shouting,  with  all  the 
energy  of  despair,  "  William !  William!  don't  look  down! 
Your  mother,  and  Henry,  and  Harriet,  are  all  here,  praying 
for  you !  Don't  look  down !  Keep  your  eye  towards  the 
top!" 

The  boy  didn't  look  down.  His  eye  is  fixed  like  a  flint 
towards  heaven,  and  his  young  heart  on  Him  who  reigns 
there.      He  grasps  again  his  knife.      He  cuts  another  niche, 


NUMBER    Sf:VEN.  25 

and  another  foot  is  added  to  the  hundreds  that  remove  him 
from  the  reach  of  human  help  from  below.  How  cai-efuUy 
he  uses  his  wasting  blade !  How  anxiously  he  selects  the 
softest  places  in  that  vast  pier!  How  he  avoids  eveiy  flinty 
grain !  How  he  economizes  his  physical  powers,  resting  a 
moment  at  each  gain  he  cuts!  How  every  motion  is  watched 
from  below !  There  stand  his  fecher,  mother,  brother,  and 
sister,  on  the  very  spot,  where,  if  he  falls,  he  will  not  fall 
alone. 

The  sun  is  half  way  down  the  west.  The  lad  has  made 
fifty  additional  niches  in  that  mighty  wall,  and  now  finds 
himself  directly  under  the  middle  of  that  vast  arch  of  rocks, 
earth,  and  trees.  He  must  cut  his  way  in  a  new  direction, 
to  get  from  under  this  overhanging  mountain.  The  inspira- 
tion of  hope  is  dying  in  his  bosom ;  its  vital  heat  is  fed  by 
the  increasing  shouts  of  hundreds,  perched  upon  cliffs  and 
trees,  and  others  who  stand  with  ropes  in  their  hands  on  the 
bridge  above,  or  with  ladders  below. 

Fifty  more  gains  must  be  cut  before  the  longest  rope  can 
reach  him.  His  wasting  blade  strikes  again  into  the  lime- 
stone. The  boy  is  emerging  painfully,  foot  by  foot,  from 
under  that  lofty  arch.  Spliced  ropes  are  ready  in  the  hands 
of  those  who  are  leaning  over  the  outer  edge  of  the  bridge. 
Two  minutes  more  and  all  must  be  over.  The  blade  is  worn 
to  the  last  half  inch.  The  boy's  head  reels ;  his  eyes  are 
starting  from  their  sockets.  His  last  hope  is  dying  in  his 
heart ;  his  life  must  hang  on  the  next  gain  he  cuts.  That 
niche  is  his  last. 

At  the  last  faint  gash  he  makes,  his  knife — his  faithful 
knife — falls  from  his  little  nerveless  hand,  and  ringing  along 
the  precipice,  falls  at  his  mother's  feet.  An  involuntary 
groan  of  despair  runs  like  a  death-knell  through  the  chan- 
nel below,  and  all  is  still  as  the  grave.  At  the  height  of 
nearly  three  hundred  feet,  the  devoted  boy  lifts  his  hopeless 
heart,  and  closes  his  eyes  to  commend  his  soul  to  God. 

'Tis  but  a  moment — there!  one  foot  swings  off" — he  is  reel- 
ing— trembling — toppling  over  into  eternity !  Hark !  a  shout 
falls  on  his  ear  from  above !  The  man  who  is  lying  with  half 
his  length  ovor  tlic  bridiro,  has  cauglit  a  glimpse  of  the  boy's 
head  and  slujuldc^rs.      Quick  as  thought  Vhe  noosed  rope  is 

50 


26  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

within  reach  of  the  sinking  youth.  No  one  breathes.  With 
a  faint  convulsive  effort,  the  swooning  boy  drops  his  arms 
into  the  noose.  Darkness  comes  over  him,  and  with  the 
words  God — Mother — whispered  on  his  hps  just  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  in  heaven — the  tightening  rope  lifts  him  out  of 
his  last  shallow  niche.  Not  a  lip  moves  while  he  is  dangling 
over  that  fearful  abyss ;  but  when  a  sturdy  Virginian  reaches 
down  and  draws  up  the  lad,  and  holds  him  up  in  his  arms 
before  the  tearful,  breathless  multitude,  such  shouting — such 
leaping  and  weeping  for  joy — never  greeted  the  ear  of  a  hu- 
man being  so  recovered  from  the  yawning  gulf  of  eternity. 


KATE  KETCHEM.— Phcebe  Caky. 


Kate  Ketchem,  on  a  winter's  night, 
Went  to  a  party,  dressed  in  white. 

Her  chignon  in  a  net  of  gold 

Was  about  as  large  as  they  ever  sold. 

Gayly  she  went  because  her  "  pap  " 
Waii  supposed  to  be  a  rich  old  chap. 

But  when  by  chance  her  glances  fell 
On  a  friend  who  had  lately  married  well, 

Her  spirits  sunk,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

A  wish  she  wouldn't  have  had  made  known, 
To  have  an  establishment  of  her  own. 

Tom  Fudge  came  slowly  through  the  throng. 
With  chestnut  hair,  worn  pretty  long. 

He  saw  Kate  Ketchem  in  the  crowd, 

And,  knowing  her  slightly,  stopped  and  bowc^ 

Then  asked  her  to  give  him  a  single  flower, 
Saying  he'd  think  it  a  priceless  dower. 


NUMBER    SEVEN. 

Ont  from  those  vnth.  which  she  was  decked 
She  took  the  poorest  she  could  select, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
To  call  attention  to  her  gown. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Fudge,  and  he  thought  how  dear 
Flowers  must  be  at  this  time  of  year. 

Then  several  charming  remarks  he  made,  • 
Asked  if  she  sang,  or  danced,  or  played ; 

And  being  exhausted,  inquired  whether 

She  thought  it  was  going  to  be  i>leasant  weather. 

And  Kate  displayed  her  jewelry. 
And  dropped  her  lashes  becomingly; 

And  listened,  with  no  attempt  to  disguise 
The  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  has  nothing  to  say, 
He  turned  around  and  walked  away. 

Kate  Ketchem  smiled,  and  said  "You  bet 
I'll  catch  that  Fudge  and  his  money  yet. 

"He's  rich  enough  to  keep  me  in  clothes, 
And  I  think  I  could  manage  him  as  I  chose. 

"  He  could  aid  my  father  as  well  as  not, 
And  buy  my  brother  a  splendid  yacht. 

"  My  mother  for  money  should  never  fret, 
And  all  that  it  cried  for  the  baby  should  get; 

"  And  after  that,  with  what  he  could  spare, 
I'd  make  a  show  at  a  charity  fair." 

Tom  Fudge  looked  back  as  he  crossed  the  sill, 
And  siiw  Kate  Ketchem  standing  still. 

"A  girl  more  suited  to  my  mind 
It  isn't  an  easy  thing  to  iindj 

"  And  every  thing  that  she  has  to  wear 
Proves  her  as  rich  as  she  is  fair. 

"  "Would  she  were  mine,  and  that  I  to-day 
Had  the  old  man's  cash  my  debts  to  pay; 


ONE  HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

"  No  creditors  with  a  long  account, 

No  tradesmen  waiting  '  that  Uttle  amount ;  * 

"  But  all  my  scores  paid  up  when  due 
By  R  father-in-law  as  rich  as  a  Jew! " 

But  he  thought  of  her  brother,  not  worth  a  straw, 
And  her  mother,  that  would  be  his,  in  law ; 

So,  undecided,  he  walked  along. 

And  Kate  was  left  alone  in  the  throng. 

But  a  lawyer  smiled,  whom  he  sought  by  stealth. 
To  ascertain  old  Ketchem's  wealth ; 

And  as  for  Kate,  she  schemed  and  planned 
Till  one  of  the  dancers  claimed  her  hand. 

He  married  her  for  her  father's  cash — 
She  married  him  to  cut  a  dash. 

But  as  to  paying  his  debts,  do  you  know 
The  father  couldn't  see  it  so ; 

And  at  hints  for  help  Kate's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

And  when  Tom  thought  of  the  way  he  had  wed, 
He  longed  for  a  single  life  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  in  a  sulky  mood. 
Regretting  the  days  of  his  bachelorhood; 

And  said  in  a  sort  of  reckless  vein, 
"  I'd  like  to  see  her  catch  me  again, 

"  If  I  were  free  as  on  that  night 

I  saw  Kate  Ketchem  dressed  in  white ! " 

She  wedded  him  to  be  rich  and  gay; 
But  husband  and  children  didn't  pay. 

He  wasn't  the  prize  she  hoped  to  draw, 
And  wouldn't  live  with  his  mother-in-law. 

And  oft  when  she  had  to  coax  and  pout 
In  order  to  get  him  to  take  her  out, 

She  thought  how  very  attentive  and  bright 
He  seemed  at  the  party  that  winter's  night, 


NUUBER    SEVBN.  29 

Of  liis  laugh,  as  soft  as  a  breeze  of  the  scuth, 
(^'Twas  now  ou  the  other  side  of  his  mouth:) 

How  he  praised  her  dress  and  gems  in  his  talk, 
As  he  took  a  careful  account  of  stock. 

Sometimes  she  hated  the  very  walls — 
Hated  her  friends,  her  dinners,  and  calls: 

Till  her  weak  affections,  to  hatred  turned, 
Like  a  dying  tallow  candle  burned. 

And  for  him  who  sat  there,  her  peace  to  mar, 
Smoking  his  everla.stiug  segar— 

He  wasn't  tlie  inan  she  thought  she  saw. 
And  grief  was  duty,  and  hate  Wiia  law. 

So  she  took  vi])  her  burden  with  a  groan, 
Saying  only,  "  I  might  have  known ! " 

Alas  for  Kate !  and  alas  for  Fudge ! 
Though  I  do  not  owe  them  any  grudge ; 

And  alas  for  any  that  find  to  their  shame 
That  two  can  play  at  their  httle  game ! 

For  of  all  bard  things  to  bear  and  grin, 
The  hardest  is  knowing  you're  taken  in. 

Ah  well !  as  a  general  thing  we  fret 
About  the  one  we  didn't  get; 

But  I  think  we  needn't  make  a  fuss 
If  the  one  we  don't  want  didn't  get  us. 

Harper's  Bazar. 


BORKIOBOOLA  GHA.— Orrin  Goodrich. 

A  stranger  preached  last  Sunday, 
And  <Tow<is  of  people  came 

To  hear  a  two  liours  sermon 
On  a  tlieiue  1  scarce  caii  name; 


ss 


30  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Twas  all  about  some  heathen, 
Thousands  of  miles  afar, 

Who  live  in  a  land  of  darkness, 
Called  Borrioboola  Gha. 

So  well  their  wants  he  pictured, 

That  when  the  box  was  passed, 
Each  listener  felt  his  pocket, 

And  goodly  sums  were  cast ; 
For  all  must  lend  a  shoulder 

To  push  the  rolling  car 
That  carries  light  and  comfort 

To  Borrioboola  Gha. 

That  night  their  wants  and  sorrows 

Lay  heavy  on  my  soul. 
And  deep  in  meditation, 

I  took  my  morning  stroll, 
When  something  caught  my  mantle 

With  eager  grasp  and  wild, 
And,  looking  down  in  wonder, 

I  saw  a  Little  child : 

A  pale  and  puny  creature, 

In  rags  and  dirt  forlorn; 
"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked  her. 

Impatient  to  be  gone; 
With  trembling  voice  she  answered, 

"We  live  just  down  the  street. 
And  mamma,  she's  a-dying. 

And  we've  nothing  left  to  eat." 

Down  in  a  dark,  damp  cellar, 

With  mould  o'er  all  the  walls, 
Through  whose  half-buried  windows 

God'^s  sunlight  never  falls ; 
Where  cold  and  want  and  hunger 

Crouched  near  her  as  she  lay, 
I  found  that  poor  child's  mother, 

Gasping  her  life  away. 

A  chair,  a  broken  table, 

A  bed  of  mouldy  straw, 
A  hearth  all  dark  and  tireless, — 

But  these  I  scarcely  saw. 
For  the  mournful  sight  before  me, 

So  sad  and  sickening, — oh, 
I  had  never,  never  pictured 

A  scene  so  full  of  woe! 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  il 

The  fiimished  and  the  naked, 

The  babe  that  iiined  for  bread, 
The  squaUd  group  that  huddled 

Around  that  dying  bed ; 
All  this  distress  and  sorrow 

Should  be  in  lands  afar; 
Was  I  suddenl}'  transported 

To  Borrioboola  Ghu? 

Ah,  no !  the  i:ioor  and  WTetched 

AVere  close  beside  my  door. 
And  I  had  passed  them  heedless 

A  thousand  times  before. 
Alas,  for  the  cold  and  hungry 

That  met  me  every  day, 
"While  all  my  tears  were  given 

To  the  suffering  far  away ! 

There's  work  enough  for  Christians 

In  distant  lands,  we  know, 
Our  Lord  commands  his  servants 

Through  all  the  world  to  go, 
Not  only  to  the  Iwutlien; 

This  was  his  command  to  them, 
"  Go,  preach  the  Word,  beginning 

Here,  at  Jerusalem." 

O  Christian !  God  has  promised. 

Whoe'er  to  such  has  given 
A  cup  of  pure,  cold  water, 

Shall  tind  reward  in  heaven. 
Wi')uld  you  secure  this  blessing? 

Y(ju  need  not  seek  it  far; — 
Go  liud  in  yonder  liovel 

A  Borrioboola  Gha ! 


THROUGH  TRIALS.— RosEGARTEN. 


Through  night  to  light.     And  though  to  mortal  eyes 

r'ni-at ion's  face  a  j)all  of  iiorror  wear, 
Goofl  cliecr,  good  cheer!  I'hf;  gloom  of  midnight  flies, 

Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  uiiid  and  fair. 


2  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Through  storm  to  calm.    And  though  his  thunder  car 
The  rumbling  tempest  drive  through  earth  and  sky, 

Good  cheer,  good  cheer!     The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  blessed  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  frost  to  spring.    And  though  the  biting  blast 

Of  Eurus  stiffen  nature's  juicy  veins, 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer!     When  winter's  wrath  is  past, 

Soft  murmuring  spring  breathes  sweetly  o'er  the  plains. 

Through  strife  to  peace.   And  though  with  bristling  front, 
A  thousand  frightful  deaths  encompass  thee. 

Good  cheer,  good  cheer!     Brave  thou  the  battle's  brunt. 
For  the  peace  march  and  song  of  victory. 

Through  cross  to  crown     And  though  thy  spirit's  life 

Trials  untold  assail  with  giant  strength. 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer!     Soon  ends  the  bitter  strife. 

And  thou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Christ  at  length. 

Through  death  to  life.    And  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  ascend 

To  the  great  supper  in  that  world,  whose  years 
Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end. 


WILLIAM  TELL. 


"Place  there  the  boy,"  the  tyrant  said; 
"Fix  me  the  apple  on  his  head. 

Ha !  rebel,  now ! 
There's  a  fair  mark  for  your  shaft  : 
To  yonder  shining  apple  waft 
An  arrow."     And  the  tyrant  laughed. 

With  quivering  brow 
Bold  Tell  looked  tliere;  his  cheek  turned  pale, 
His  proud  11] )S  throbbed  as  if  would  fail 

Their  quivering  breath. 
"Ha!  doth  he  blanch?"  fierce  Gesler  cried, 
"I've  conquered,  slave,  thy  soul  of  pride." 
No  voice  to  that  stern  taunt  rejilied — 

All  mute  as  death. 
"And  what  the  meed?"  at  length  Tell  asked. 
"Bold  fool,  when  slaves  like  thee  are  tasked. 

It  is  my  will. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  33 

But  that  thine  eye  may  keener  be, 
And  nerved  to  such  nice  archery, 
If  thou  cleav'st  yon,  tliou  goest  free. 

Wliat!  ipause  you  still? 
Give  him  a  bow  and  arrow  there — 
One  shaft— but  one.''    Gleams  of  despair 
Rush  for  a  moment  o'er  the  Switzer's  face ; 
Then  passed  away  eacli  stormy  trace, 
And  high  resolve  came  in  their  place. 

Unmoved,  yet  flushed, 
"  I  take  thy  terms,"  lie  muttered  low, 
Grasped  eagerly  the  proffered  bow. 

The  quiver  searched. 
Sought  out  an  arrow  keen  and  long, 
Fit  for  a  sinewy  arm,  and  strong, 
And  placed  it  on  the  sounding  thong 

The  tough  yew  arched. 
He  drew  the  bow,  whilst  all  around 
That  thronging  crowd  there  was  no  sound, 

No  step,  no  word,  no  breath. 
All  gazed  with  an  unerring  eye, 
To  see  the  fearful  arrow  fly; 
The  light  wind  died  into  a  sigh. 

And  scarcely  stirred. 
Afar  the  boy  stood,  firm  and  mute; 
He  saw  the  strong  bow  curved  to  shoot, 

But  never  moved. 
He  knew  the  daring  coolness  of  that  hand, 
He  knew  it  was  a  father  scanned 

The  boy  he  loved. 
The  Switzer  gazed — the  arrow  hung, 
"  My  only  boy ! "  sobbed  on  his  tongue ; 

He  could  not  shoot. 
"Ha!"  cried  the  tyrant,  "doth  he  quail? 
Mark  how  his  haughty  brow  grows  pale ! " 
But  a  deep  voice  rung  on  the  gale — 

"  Shoot,  in  God's  name ! " 
Again  the  drooping  shaft  he  took. 
And  turned  to  heaven  one  burning  look, 

Of  all  doubts  reft. 
"  Be  firm,  my  boy,"  was  all  he  said. 
The  api)le's  left  the  strijjling's  head; 

Ha!  ha!  'tis  cleft! 
And  so  it  was,  and  Tell  was  free. 
Quick  the  1>rave  boy  was  at  his  knee. 

With  rosy  cheek. 
His  loving  arms  his  buy  embrace; 
But  again  that  tyrant  cried  in  haste, 
"An  arrow  in  thv  belt  is  placed ; 

What  means  it?    Speak!" 


v^^  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


The  Switzer  niiseil  liis  clenched  hand  high, 
Whilst  lightning  llu.shed  across  his  eye 

Incessantly, 
"  To  smite  thee,  tyrant,  to  the  heart, 
Had  heaven  willed  it  that  my  dart 

Had  touched  my  hoy." 
"Rebellion!  treason!  chain  the  slave!" 
A  hundred  swords  around  him  wave, 
Whilst  hate  to  Gesler's  features  gave 

Infuriate  joy. 
But  that  one  arrow  found  its  goal, 
Hid  with  revenge  in  Gesler's  soul; 

And  Lucerne's  lake 
Heard  his  dastard  soul  outmoan 
When  Freedom's  call  abroad  was  blown, 
And  Switzerland,  a  giant  grown, 

Her  fetters  brake. 
From  hill  to  -hill  the  mandate  flew, 
From  lake  to  lake  the  tempest  grew, 

With  wakening  swell, 
Till  proud  oppression  crouched  for  shame, 
And  Austria's  haughtiness  grew  tame; 
And  Freedom's  watchword  was  the  name 

Of  William  Tell. 


A  STRUGGLE  WITH  A  STOVE-PIPE.— James  M.  Bailed-. 

Putting  up  a  stove  is  not  so  difficult  in  itself.  It  is  the 
pipe  that  raises  four-fifths  of  the  mischief  and  all  the  dust. 
You  may  take  down  a  stove  with  all  the  care  in  the  world, 
and  yet  that  pipe  won't  come  together  again  as  it  was  before. 
You  find  this  out  when  you  are  standing  on  a  chair  with 
your  arms  full  of  pipe  and  your  mouth  full  of  soot.  Your 
wife  is  standing  on  the  floor  in  a  position  that  enables  her  to 
see  you,  the  pipe,  and  the  chair,  and  here  she  gives  utterance 
to  those  remarks  that  are  calculated  to  hasten  a  man  into 
the  extremes  of  insanity.  Her  dress  is  pinned  over  her 
waist,  and  her  hands  rest  on  her  hips.  She  has  got  one  of 
your  hats  on  her  head,  and  your  linen  coat  on  her  back,  and 
a  pair  of  rubbers  on  her  feet.  There  is  about  five  cents' 
worth  of  pot  black  on  her  nose,  arid  a  lot  of  flour  on  her 


NUMB  Ell    SEVKX.  36 

vAin,  and  altogether  she  is  a  spectade  that  would  inspire  a 
dead  man  with  distrust.  And  while  you  are  up  there  trying 
to  circumvent  the  awful  contrariness  of  the  pipe,  and  telling 
her  that  you  know  some  fool  has  been  mixing  it,  she  stands 
safely  on  the  floor  and  bombards  you  with  such  domestic 
mottoes  as — "  What's  the  use  of  swearing  so?"  "  You  know 
no  one  has  touched  that  pipe."  "  You  ain't  got  any  more 
patience  than  a  child."  "  Do  be  careful  of  that  chair."  And 
then  she  goes  oli'  and  reappears  with  an  armful  more  of  pipe, 
and  before  you  are  aware  of  it  she  has  got  that  pipe  so  hor- 
ribly mixed  up  that  it  does  seem  no  two  pieces  are  alike. 

You  join  the  ends  and  work  them  to  and  fro,  and  to  and 
fro  again,  and  then  you  take  them  apart  and  look  at  them. 
Then  you  spread  one  out  and  jam  the  other  together,  and 
mount  them  once  more.  But  it  is  no  go.  You  begin  to 
think  the  pieces  are  inspired  with  life,  and  ache  to  kick 
them  through  the  window.  But  she  doesn't  lose  her  pa- 
tience. She  goes  around  with  that  awful  exasperating  rig- 
ging on,  with  a  length  of  pipe  under  each  arm  and  a  long- 
liandled  broom  in  her  hand,  and  says  she  don't  see  how  it 
is  some  people  never  have  any  trouble  putting  up  a  stove. 
Then  you  miss  the  hammer.  You  don't  see  it  anywhere. 
You  stare  into  the  pipe  along  the  mantel,  and  down  the 
stove,  and  off  to  the  floor.  Your  wife  watches  you,  and  is 
finally  thoughtful  enough  to  inquire  what  you  are  looking 
after ;  and  on  learning,  pulls  the  article  from  her  pocket. 
Then  you  feel  as  if  you  could  go  out  doors  and  swear  a  hole 
twelve  feet  square  through  a  block  of  brick  buildings,  but 
slie  merely  observes,  "  Why  on  earth  don't  you  speak  when 
you  want  anything,  and  not  stare  around  like  a  dummy." 

When  that  part  of  the  pipe  which  goes  through  the  wall 
is  u]),  she  keeps  it  up  with  the  broom,  while  you  are  making 
the  connec'tion,  and  stares  at  it  with  an  intensity  tluit  is  en- 
tirely uncalled  for.  All  the  while  your  position  is  becoming 
more  and  more  interesting.  The  pii)e  don't  go  together,  of 
course.  The  soot  shakes  down  into  your  eyes  and  mouth, 
the  sweat  rolls  down  your  face  and  tickles  your  cliin  as  it 
drops  off,  and  it  seems  as  if  your  arms  were  slowly  but  surely 
drawing  out  of  their  sockets. 

Here  your  wife  comes  to  the  rescue  by  inquiring  if  you  are 


SQ  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

going  to  be  all  day  doing  nothing,  and  if  you  think  her  arms 
are  made  of  cast  iron ;  and  then  the  broom  slips  off  the 
pipe,  and  in  her  endeavor  to  recover  her  hold  she  jabs  you 
under  the  chin  with  the  handle,  and  the  pipe  comes  down 
on  your  head  with  its  load  of  fried  soot,  and  then  the  chair 
tilts  forward  enough  to  discharge  your  feet,  and  you  come 
down  on  the  wrong  end  of  that  chair  with  a  force  that 
would  bankrupt  a  pile  driver.  You  don't  touch  that  stove 
again.  You  leave  your  wife  examining  the  chair  and  be- 
moaning its  injuries,  and  go  into  the  kitchen  and  wash  your 
skinned  and  bleeding  hands  with  yellow  soap.  Then  you 
go  down  street  after  a  man  to  do  the  business,  and  your  wife 
goes  over  to  the  neighbor's  with  her  chair,  and  tells  them 
about  its  injuries,  and  drains  the  neighborhood  dry  with  its 
sympathy  long  before  you  get  home. 

From  "Life  in  Danhury." 


THE  FACTORY  GIRL'S  LAST  DAY. 

Kobert  Dale  Owen,  in  one  of  tbe  chapters  of  his  autohiography,  published  in 
Ihe  Atlantic  Monthly,  reproduces  the  following  poem,  wiitteu  many  years  ago  to 
Illustrate  an  incident  of  English  factory  life. 

'Twas  on  a  winter  morning. 

The  weather  wet  and  wild, 
Two  hours  before  the  dawning 

The  father  roused  his  child ; 
Her  daily  morsel  bringing, 

The  darksome  room  he  paced, 
And  cried,  "The  bell  is  ringing; 

My  hapless  darling,  haste!" 

"  Dear  father,  I'm  so  sorry ! 

I  scarce  can  reach  the  door;   • 
And  long  the  way  and  dreary; 

Oh,  carry  me  once  more ! " 
Her  wasted  form  seems  nothing; 

The  load  is  on  his  heart; 
He  soothes  the  little  sufferer, 

Till  at  the  mill  they  part. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  37 

The  overlooker  met  her 

As  to  her  frame  she  crept; 
And  with  his  thong  he  beat  her, 

And  cursed  her  when  she  wept. 
It  seemed,  as  she  grew  weaker, 

The  threads  the  oftener  broke; 
The  ra])id  wheels  ran  quicker, 

And  heavier  fell  the  stroke. 

She  thought  how  her  dead  mother 

Blessed  her  with  latest  breath, 
And  of  her  little  brother. 

Worked  down,  like  her,  to  death; 
Then  told  a  tiny  neighbor 

A  half-penny  she'd  pay 
To  take  her  last  hour's  labor, 

While  by  her  frame  she  lay. 

The  sun  had  long  descended 

Ere  she  sought  that  rejjose; 
Her  day  began  and  ended 

As  cruel  tyrants  chose. 
Then  home!  but  oft  she  tarried; 

She  fell,  and  rose  no  more; 
By  pitying  comrades  carried. 

She  reached  her  father's  door. 

At  night,  with  tortured  feeling. 

He  watched  his  sleepless  child ; 
Though  close  beside  her  kneeling, 

She  knew  him  not,  iior  smiled. 
Again  the  factory's  ringing 

Her  last  percei)tions  tried; 
Up  from  her  straw-1)ed  springing, 

"  It's  time ! "  she  shrieked,  and  died. 

That  night  a  chariot  passed  her. 

While  on  the  ground  she  lay; 
The  daiighters  of  her  master 

An  evening  visit  pay. 
Their  tender  hearts  were  sighing, 

As  negro's  wrongs  were  told, 
Whiln  tlie  irliifp  slave  was  dying 

Who  gained  their  father's  g<jld. 


KS" 


58  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


ERIN'S  FLAG— Father  Eyan. 

Unroll  Erin's  flag !  fling  its  folds  to  the  breeze ! 

Let  it  float  o'er  the  land,  let  it  wave  o'er  the  seas ; 

Lift  it  out  of  the  dust— let  it  wave  as  of  yore, 

When  its  chiefs  with  their  clans  stood  around  it  and  swore 

That  never,  no,  never,  while  God  gave  them  life, 

And  they  had  an  arm  and  a  sword  for  the  strife, 

That  never,  no,  never,  that  banner  would  yield, 

As  long  as  the  heart  of  a  Celt  was  its  shield ; — 

While  the  hand  of  a  Celt  had  a  weapon  to  wield. 

And  his  last  dro^)  of  blood  was  mished  on  the. field  I 

Lift  it  up !  wave  it  high! — 'tis  as  bright  as  of  old; 

Not  a  stain  on  its  green,  not  a  blot  on  its  gold. 

Though  the  woes  and  the  wrongs  of  three  hundred  long  years 

Have  drenched  Erin's  Sunburst  with  blood  and  with  tear-i; 

Though  the  clouds  of  oppression  enshroud  it  in  gloom, 

And  around  it  the  thunders  of  tyranny  boom, 

Look  aloft!  look  aloft!  lo!  the  cloud's  drifting  by, 

There's  a  gleam  through  the  gloom,  there's  a  light  in  the  sky. 

'Tis  the  Sunburst  resplendent— far,  flashing  on  high ; 

Erin's  dark  night  is  waning,  her  day-dawn  is  nigh. 

Lift  it  up!  lift  it  up!  the  old  Banner  of  Green; 

The  blood  of  its  sons  has  but  briglitened  its  sheen. 

What  though  the  tyrant  has  trampled  it  down. 

Are  its  folds  not  emblazoned  with  deeds  of  renown? 

AVhat  though  for  ages  it  droops  in  the  dust, 

Bhall  it  droop  thus  forever?    No  !  no !  God  is  just! 

Take  it  up!  take  it  up  from  the  tyrant's  foul  tread. 

Lest  he  tear  the  Green  Flag,  we  will  snatch  its  last  shred, 

And  beneath  it  we'll  bleed  as  our  forefathers  bled. 

And  we'll  vow  by  the  dust  in  the  graves  of  our  dead; 

And  we'll  swear  by  the  blood  that  the  Briton  has  shed. 

And  we'll  vow  by  the  wrecks  which  through  Erin  he  spread, 

And  we'll  swear  by  the  thousands  who  famished,  unfed, 

Died  down  in  the  ditches— wild  howling  for  bread; 

And  we'll  vow  by  our  heroes,  whose  spirits  have  fled, 

And  we'll  swear  by  the  bones  in  each  coffinless  bed 

That  we'll  battle  the  Briton  through  danger  and  dread; 

That  we'll  cling  to  the  cause  which  we  glory  to  wed 

Till  the  gleam  of  our  steel  and  the  shock  of  our  lead 

Shall  prove  to  the  foe  that  we  meant  what  we  said— 

Tliat  we'll  lift  up  the  Green,  and  we'll  tear  down  the  Red. 

Lift  up  the  Green  Flag!  oh!  it  wants  to  go  home. 
Full  long  has  its  lot  been  to  wander  and  roam ; 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  39 

It  has  followed  the  fate  of  its  sons  o'er  the  world, 
But  its  folds,  like  their  hopes,  are  not  faded  nor  furled; 
Like  a  weary-^^^inged  bird,  to  the  East  and  the  West 
It  has  flitted  and  tied,  but  it  never  shall  rest. 
Till,  pluming  its  pinions,  it  sweeps  o'er  the  main, 
And  speeds  to  the  shore  of  its  old  home  again. 
Where  its  fetterless  folds  o'er  each  mountain  and  plain 
Shall  wave  with  a  glory  that  never  shall  wane. 

Take  it  up!  take  it  up!  bear  it  back  from  afar! 

Tliat  banner  must  blaze  'mid  the  lightning  of  war; 

Lay  your  hands  on  its  folds,  lift  your  eyes  to  the  sky, 

And  swear  that  you'll  bear  it  triumj)hant  or  die;  , 

And  shout  to  the  clans  scattered  far  o'er  the  earth, 

To  join  in  the  march  to  the  land  of  their  birth; 

And  wherever  the  Exiles,  'neath  heaven's  broad  dome, 

Have  been  fated  to  suffer,  to  sorrow,  and  roam. 

They'll  l)<)ur.d  on  the  sea,  and  away  o'er  the  foam 

They'll  march  to  the  music  of  "  Home,  sweet  Home." 


THE  MAD  ENGIXEER. 

This  thrilling  story  is  furnishud  liy  a  Trussian  railroad  conductor. 

My  train  left  Dantzic  in  the  morning  generally  about  eight 
o'clock ;  but  once  a  week  we  had  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of 
the  steamer  from  Stockholm.  It  was  the  morning  of  the 
steamer's  arrival  that  I  came  down  from  the  hotel  and  found 
that  my  engineer  had  been  so  seriously  injured  that  he  could 
not  perform  his  work.  A  railway  carriage  had  run  over  him, 
and  broken  one  of  his  legs.  I  went  immediately  to  the  en- 
gine-house to  procure  another  engineer,  for  I  knew  there 
were  tliree  or  four  in  reserve  there,  but  I  was  disaj)pointed. 
I  inquired  for  Westphal,  but  was  informed  that  he  had  gone 
to  Sreegen  to  sec  his  mother.  Gondolpho  had  been  sent  to 
Konigsberg  on  the  mad.  But  where  was  Maync?^  He  had 
leave  of  absence  for  two  days,  and  had  gone  no  one  knew 
whither. 

Here  was  a  fix.  I  Tieanl  the  pufTnig  of  the  steamer,  and 
the  passengers  would  be  on  liand  in  iifteen  minutes.  I  ran 
to  the  guards  and  asked  them  if  they  knew  wliere  there  was 


40  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

an  engineer,  but  they  did  not.  I  then  went  to  the  firemen 
and  asked  them  if  any  one  of  them  felt  competent  to  run 
the  engine  to  Bromberg.  No  one  dared  to  attempt  it.  Tlie 
distance  was  nearly  one  hundred  miles.  What  was  to  be 
done? 

The  steamer  stopped  at  the  wharf,  and  those  who  were 
going  on  by  rail  came  flocking  to  the  station.  They  had 
eaten  breakfast  on  board  the  boat,  and  were  all  ready  for  a 
fresh  start.  The  baggage  was  checked  and  registered,  the 
tickets  bought,  the  different  carriages  assigned  to  the  various 
classes  of  passengers,  and  the  passengers  themselves  seated. 
The  train  was  in  readiness  in  the  long  station-house,  and 
the  engine  was  steaming  and  puffhig  away  impatiently  in  the 
fiistant  firing-house. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock. 

"Come,  why  don't  we  start?"  growled  an  old  fat  Swede, 
who  had  been  watching  me  narrowly  for  the  last  fifteen 
minutes. 

And  upon  this  there  was  a  general  chorus  of  anxious  in- 
quiry, which  soon  settled  to  downright  murmuring.  At  this 
juncture  some  one  touched  me  on  the  elbow.  I  turned  and 
saw  a  stranger  by  my  side.  I  expected  that  he  was  going  to 
remonstrate  with  me  for  my  backwardness.  In  fact,  I  began 
to  have  strong  temptations  to  pull  off  my  uniform,  for  every 
anxious  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  glaring  badges  which  marked 
me  as  the  chief  officer  of  the  train. 

However,  this  stranger  was  a  middle-aged  man,  tall  and 
etout,  with  a  face  of  great  energy  and  intelligence.  His  eye 
was  black  and  brilliant, — so  brilliant  that  I  could  not  for  the 
life  of  me  gaze  steadily  into  it ;  and  his  lips,  which  were 
very  thin,  seemed  more  like  polished  marble  than  humar 
flesh.  His  dress  was  black  throughout,  and  not  only  set 
with  exact  nicety,  but  was  scrupulously  clean  and  neat. 

"  You  want  an  engineer,  I  understand,"  he  said  in  a  low, 
cautious  tone,  at  the  same  time  gazing  quietly  about  him,  as 
though  be  wanted  no  one  to  hear  what  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  I  replied.  "  My  train  is  all  ready,  and  we  have  no 
engineer  within  twenty  miles  of  this-  place." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  going  to  Bromberg :  I  must  go,  and  I  will 
run  the  engine  for  you." 


NUMBEU    SEVEN.  41 

■*Ha!"  I  uttered,  "are  you  an  engineer?" 

-1  am,  sir, — one  of  the  oldest  in  the  country, — and  am  now 
on  my  way  to  make  arrangements  for  a  great  improvement 
1  have  invented  for  the  api)lifation  of  steam  to  a  locomo- 
tive. i\iy  name  is  Martin  KroUer.  If  you  wish,  I  will  run 
as  far  as  ^romberg ;  and  I  will  show  you  running  that  is 
running.'' 

Was  I  nut  fortunate?  I  determined  to  accept  the  man's 
offer  at  once,  and  so  I  told  him.  He  received  my  answer 
with  a  nod  and  a  smile.  I  went  with  him  to  the  house, 
where  we  found  the  iron  horse  in  charge  of  the  fireman, 
and  all  ready  iu^-  a  start.  KroUer  got  upon  the  platform,  and 
I  followed  him.  I  had  never  seen  a  man  betray  such  a  pe- 
culiar aptness  amid  machinery  as  he  did.  He  let  on  the 
steam  in  an  instant,  but  yet  with  care  and  judgment,  and  iie 
backed  up  to  the  baggage-carriage  with  the  most  exact  nice- 
ty. I  had  seen  enough  to  assure  me  that  he  was  thoroughly 
acquainted  witn  the  business,  and  I  felt  composed  once 
more.  I  gave  my  engine  up  to  the  new  man,  and  then  hast- 
ened away  to  tue  office.  Word  was  passed  for  all  the  pass- 
engers to  taKe  their  seats,  and  soon  afterward  I  waved  my 
hand  to  the  engineer.  There  was  a  iiuff, — a  groaning  of  the 
heaxy  axleirees, — a  trembling  of  the  building, — and  the 
train  was  In  motion.  I  leaped  upon  the  platform  of  the 
guard-carriage,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the  station-house 
was  far  behind  us. 

In  less  than  an  hour  we  reached  Dirsham,  where  we  took 
up  the  pas.sengers  that  had  c(jme  on  the  Konigsberg  railway. 
Here  I  went  forward  and  asked  KroUer  how  he  liked  the 
engine.    He  replied  that  he  liked  it  very  much. 

"  But,"  he  added,  with  a  strange  sparkling  of  the  eye, "  wait 
until  I  get  my  improvement,  and  then  you  will  see  traveling. 
By  the  soul  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  sir,  I  could  run  an  engine 
of  my  construction  to  the  moon  in  four-and-twenty  hours." 

I  smiled  at  what  I  thought  his  enthusiasm,  and  then  went 
back  to  my  station.  As  soon  as  the  Konigsberg  passengers 
were  aU  on  board,  and  their  baggage-carriage  attached,  we 
started  on  again.  Soon  after,  I  went  into  the  guard-car- 
riage, and  sat  down.  An  eaily  train  from  Konigsberg  liad 
been  through   two   hours  before    reaching  Bromberg.  and 


42  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

that  was  at  Little  Oscue,  where  we  took  on  board  the  West- 
ern mail. 

"  How  we  go,"  uttered  one  of  the  guards,  some  fifteen  min- 
utes after  we  had  left  Dirsham. 

"  The  new  engineer  is  trying  the  speed,"  I  replied,  not  yet 
having  any  fear. 

But  ere  long  I  began  to  apprehend  he  was  running  a  little 
too  fast.  The  carriages  began  to  sway  to  and  fro,  and  I  could 
hear  exclamations  of  fright  from  the  passengers. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  one  of  the  guard,  coming  in  at 
that  moment,  "what  is  that  fellow  doing?  Look,  sir,  and  see 
how  we  are  going." 

I  looked  at  the  window,  and  found  that  we  were  dashing 
along  at  a  speed  never  before  traveled  on  that  road.  Posts, 
fences,  rocks,  and  trees  flew  by  in  one  undistinguished  mass, 
and  the  carriages  now  swayed  fearfully.  I  started  to  my 
feet,  and  met  a  passenger  on  the  platform.  He  was  one  of 
the  chief  owners  of  our  road,  and  was  just  on  his  way  to 
Berlin.    He  was  pale  and  excited. 

"Sir,"  he  gasped,  "is  Martin  Kroller  on  the  engine?" 

"Yes,"  I  told  him. 

"Holy  Virgin!  didn't  you  know  him?" 

"Know?"  I  repeated,  somewhat  puzzled;  what  do  you 
mean?  He  told  me  his  name  was  Kroller,  and  that  he  was 
an  engineer.    We  had  no  one  to  run  the  engine,  and — " 

"  You  took  Jiim  !  "  interruijted  the  man.  "  Good  heavens, 
sir,  he  is  as  crazy  as  a  man  can  be !  He  turned  his  brain  over 
a  new  plan  for  applying  steam  power.  I  saw  him  at  the  sta- 
tion, but  did  not  fully  recognize  him,  as  I  was  in  a  hurry. 
Just  now  one  of  your  passengers  told  me  that  your  engineers 
were  all  gone  this  morning,  and  that  you  found  one  that  was 
a  stranger  to  you.  Then  I  knew  that  the  man  whom  I  had 
seen  was  Martin  Kroller.  He  had  escaped  from  the  hospital 
at  Stettin.    You  must  get  him  oflF  somehow." 

The  whole  fearful  truth  was  now  open  to  me.  The  speed 
of  the  train  was  increasing  every  moment,  and  I  knew  that 
a  few  more  miles  per  hour  would  launch  us  all  into  destruc- 
tion. I  called  to  the  guard,  and  then  made  my  way  forward 
as  quickly  as  possible.  I  reached  the  after  platform  of  the 
after  tender,  and  there  stood  Kroller  upon  the  engine-board. 


,  MUMBER    SEVEN.  43 

his  hat  and  coat  off,  his  long  black  hair  floating  wildly  in 
the  wind,  his  shirt  unbuttoned  at  the  front,  his  sleeves  rolled 
up,  with  a  pistol  in  his  teeth,  and  thus  glaring  upon  the  fire- 
man, who  lay  motionless  upon  the  fuel.  The  furnace  was 
stuffed  till  the  very  latch  of  the  door  was  red  hot,  and  the 
whole  engine  was  quivering  and  swaying  as  though  it  would 
shiver  to  pieces. 

"Kroller!  Kroller!"  I  cried  at  the  top  of  my  voice. 

The  crazy  engineer  started  and  caught  the  pistol  in  his 
hand.  Oh,  how  those  great  black  eyes  glared,  and  how  ghast- 
ly and  frightful  the  face  looked! 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha ! "  he  yelled  demoniacally,  glaring  upon  me 
Kke  a  roused  lion. 

"  They  swore  that  I  could  not  maKe  it !  But  see !  see !  See 
my  new  power!  See  my  new  engine!  I  made  it,  and  they 
are  jealous  of  me!  I  made  it,  and  when  it  was  done,  they 
stole  it  from  me.  But  I  have  found  it !  For  years  I  have 
been  wandering  in  search  of  my  great  engine,  and  they 
swore  it  was  not  made.  But  I  have  found  it!  I  knew  it 
this  morning  when  I  saw  it  at  Dantzic,  and  I  was  determined 
to  have  it.  And  I've  got  it !  Ho !  ho !  ho !  we're  on  the  way 
to  the  moon,  I  say!  By  the  Virgin  Mother,  we'll  be  in  the 
moon  in  four-and-twenty  houro.  Down,  down,  villain !  If 
you  move,  I'll  shoot  you." 

This  was  spoken  to  the  poor  fireman,  who  at  that  moment 
attempted  to  rise,  and  the  frightened  man  sank  back  again. 

"  Here's  Little  Oscue  just  before  us,"  cried  out  one  of  the 
guard.  But  even  as  he  spoke  the  buildings  were  at  hand. 
A  sickening  sensation  settled  upon  my  heart,  for  I  supposed 
that  we  were  now  gone.  The  houses  flew  by  like  lightning. 
I  knew  if  the  officers  here  had  turned  the  switi-h  as  usual, 
we  should  be  hurled  into  eternity  in  one  fearful  crash.  I 
saw  a  flash, — it  was  another  engine, — I  closed  my  eyes;  but 
still  we  thundered  on !  The  officers  had  seen  our  speed,  and 
knowing  that  we  wfnild  not  head  up  in  that  distance,  they 
hail  clianged  the  switcli,  so  tliat  we  went  forward. 

But  tliere  was  sure  death  ahead,  if  we  did  not  stop.  Only 
fifteen  miles  from  us  was  tlie  town  of  Schwartz,  on  the  Vis- 
tula; and  at  the  rate  we  were  going  we  sliould  be  there  in  a 
few  minutes,  for  each  minute  carried  us  over  a  mile.      The 


44  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

shrieks  of  the  passengers  now  rose  above  the  crash  of  the 
rails,  and  more  terrific  than  all  else  arose  the  demoniac  yells 
of  the  mad  engineer. 

"  Merciful  heavens ! "  gasped  the  guardsman,  "  there's  not 
a  moment  to  lose;  Schwartz  is  close.  But  hold,"  he  added; 
"let's  shoot  him." 

At  that  moment  a  tall,  stout  German  student  came  over 
the  platform  where  we  stood,  and  we  saw  that  the  madman 
had  his  heavy  pistol  aimed  at  us.  He  grasped  a  huge  stick 
of  wood,  and,  with  a  steadiness  of  nerve  which  I  could  not 
have  commanded,  he  hurled  it  with  such  force  and  precision 
that  he  knocked  the  pistol  from  the  maniac's  hand.  I  saw 
the  movement,  and  on  the  instant  that  the  pistol  fell  I 
sprang  forward,  and  the  German  followed  me.  I  grasped 
the  man  by  the  arm ;  but  I  should  have  been  nothing  in  his 
mad  ijower,  had  I  been  alone.  He  would  have  hurled  me  from 
the  platform,  had  not  the  student  at  that  moment  struck  him 
upon  the  head  with  a  stick  of  wood  which  he  caught  as  he 
came  over  the  tender. 

Kroller  settled  down  like  a  dead  man,  and  on  the  next  in- 
stant I  shut  off  the  steam  and  opened  the  valve.  As  the 
freed  steam  shrieked  and  howled  in  its  escape,  the  speed 
began  to  decrease,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the  dangei" 
was  passed.  As  I  settled  back,  entirely  overcome  by  the 
wild  emotions  that  had  raged  within  me,  we  began  to  turn 
the  river ;  and  before  I  was  fiiirly  recovered,  the  fireman  had 
stopped  the  train  in  the  station-house  at  Schwartz. 

Martin  Kroller,  still  insensible,  was  taken  from  the  plat- 
form; and,  as  we  carried  him  to  the  guard-room,  one  of  the 
guard  recognized  him,  and  told  us  that  he  had  been  ther* 
about  two  weeks  before. 

"  He  came,"  said  the  guard,  "  and  swore  that  an  engine 
which  stood  near  by  was  his.  He  said  it  was  one  he  had 
made  to  go  to  the  moon  in,  and  that  it  had  been  stolen  from 
him.    We  sent  for  more  help  to  arrest  him,  and  he  fled." 

"Well,"  I  replied  with  a  shudder,  "I  wish  he  had  ap, 
preached  me  in  the  same  way;  but  he  was  more  cautious  a1 
Dantzic." 

At  Schwartz  we  found  an  engineer  to  run  the  engine  to 
Bromberg;    and  having  taken  out  the  Western  mail  for  the 


KtTMBEE   SEVEN.  43 

next  North(Tn  mail  to  carry  along,  we  saw  that  Kroller 
would  be  properly  attended  to,  and  then  started  on. 

The  rest  of  the  trip  we  ran  in  safety,  though  I  could  see 
the  passengers  were  not  wholly  at  ease,  and  would  not  be 
until  they  were  entirely  clear  of  the  railway.  A  hea^"y  purse 
was  made  up  by  them  for  the  German  student,  and  he  ac- 
cepted it  with  much  gratitude,  and  I  was  glad  of  it;  for 
the  current  of  gratitude  to  him  may  have  prevented  a  far 
different  current  of  feeling  which  might  have  poured  upon 
my  head  for  having  engaged  a  madman  to  run  a  railroad 
train. 

But  this  is  not  the  end.  IMartin  Kroller  remained  insen- 
sible from  the  ejects  of  the  blow  nearly  two  weeks ;  and 
v/hen  he  recovered  from  that,  he  was  sound  again,  his  insan- 
ity was  all  gone.  I  saw  him  about  three  weeks  afterward, 
but  he  had  no  recollection  of  me.  He  remembered  nothing 
of  the  past  year,  not  even  his  mad  freak  on  my  engine. 

But  I  remembered  it,  and  I  remember  it  still ;  and  the  peo- 
ple need  never  fear  that  I  shall  be  imposed  upon  again  by  a 
crazy  engineer. 


ANSWER  TO  "  FIVE  O'CLOCK  IN  THE  MORNING." 

It  is  all  very  well  for  the  poets  to  tell. 

By  way  of  their  songs'  adorning. 
Of  milkmaids  who  rouse  to  manipulate  cows, 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning; 
And  of  moony  young  mowers  who  bundle  out  doors, 

The  charms  of  their  straw  beds  scorning. 
Before  break  of  day,  to  make  love  and  hay 

At  five  o'clock  in"  the  morning ! 

But,  between  me  and  you,  it  is  all  untrue ; 

Believe  not  a  word  that  they  utter; 
To  no  milkmaid  alive  does  the  finger  of  five 

I'ring  beaux — or  even  bring  butter; 
The  p<jor  sleepy  cows,  if  told  to  arouse, 

Would  do  so,  perhaps,  in  a  horning. 
But  the  sweet  country  girls,  would  they  show  their  curia 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning? 


40  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

It  may  not  be  wrong  for  the  man  in  the  song, 

Or  the  moon — if  anxious  to  settle, — 
To  kneel  in  wet  grass  and  pop,  but  alas! 

What  if  he  popped  down  on  a  nettle ?_ 
For  how  could  he  see  what  was  under  his  knee, 

If,  in  spite  of  my  friendly  warning, 
He  went  out  .of  bed,  and  his  house,  and  his  head, 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning? 

It  is  all  very  well  such  stories  to  tell, 

But  if  I  were  a  maid  all  forlorning. 
And  a  lover  should  drop  in  the  clover  to  pop 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
If  I  liked  him,  you  see,  I'd  say,  "  Please  call  at  three ;" 

If  not,  I'd  turn  on  him  with  scorning, 
"  Don't  come  here,  you  flat,  with  conundrums  like  that^ 

At  five  o'clock  iu  the  morning." 


A  MIDSUMMER  DAY  SCENE. 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
"While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 

Was  clearing  the  dinnei  away; 
A  sweet  little  girl,  with  fine  blue  eyes, 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  placed  his  hand  on  her  head. 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face ; 
He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 

Had  sat  long  ago  in  that  place. 
As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 
"  Don't  smoke,"  said  the  child, "  how  it  makes  you  cry  I " 

The  house-dog  slumbered  upon  the  floor, 
Where  the  sun,  after  noon,  would  steal ; 

The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 
Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel; 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree 

Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 

While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  head  so  fair 

Of  his  dear  grandchild  were  pressed. 
His  frosty  locks  'mid  her  soft  hair  lay- 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer  day! 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  '      47 


LEOXA. — J  AS,  G.  Clakke. 


Leona,  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

The  hour  we've  awaited  so  long, 
For  the  angel  to  open  a  door  through  the  sky. 
That  my  spirit  may  break  from  its  prison,  and  try 
Its  voice  in  an  infinite  song. 


*o' 


Just  now,  as  the  slumbers  of  night 

Came  o'er  me  with  peace-giving  breath, 
The  curtain  half  lifted,  revealed  to  my  sight 
Those  windows  which  look  on  the  kingdom  of  light 
That  borders  the  river  of  death. 

And  a  Aasion  fell,  solemn  and  sweet. 

Bringing  gleams  of  a  morning-lit  land; 
I  saw  the  white  shore  wliich  the  pale  waters  beat, 
And  I  heard  tlie  low  hill  as  they  broke  at  their  feet 
Who  walked  on  the  beautiful  strand. 

And  I  wondered  why  spirits  should  cling 
To  their  clay  with  a  struggle  and  sigh, 
When  life's  purple  autumn  is  better  than  spring, 
And  the  soul  flies  away  like  a  sparrow,  to  sing 
In  a  climate  where  leaves  never  die. 

Leona,  come  close  to  my  bed, 

And  lay  your  dear  hand  on  my  brow; 
The  same  touch  that  thrilled  me  in  days  that  are  fled. 
And  raised  the  lost  roses  of  youth  from  the  dead, 
Can  brighten  the  brief  moments  now. 

We  have  loved  from  the  cold  world  apart. 

And  your  trust  was  too  generous  and  true 
For  their  hate  to  o'erthrow;  when  the  slanderer's  dart 
Was  rankling  deep  in  my  desolate  heart, 
I  was  dearer  than  ever  to  you. 

I  thank  the  great  Father  for  this, 

Tliat  our  love  is  not  lavished  in  vain; 
Each  germ  in  the  future  will  blossom  to  bliss, 
And  the  forms  that  we  love,  and  the  li{>s  that  we  kiss, 
Never  shrink  at  the  shadow  of  pain. 

By  tlie  light  of  this  faitli  am  I  taught 
That  my  labor  is  only  begun; 


48  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

In  the  strength  of  this  hope  have  I  struggled  and  fought 
With  the  legions  of  wrong,  till  my  armor  has  caught 
The  gleam  of  Eternity's  smi. 

Leona,  look  forth,  and  behold 

From  headland,  from  hillside,  and  deep, 
The  day-king  surrenders  his  banners  of  gold, 
The  twilight  advances  through  woodland  and  wold, 
And  the  dews  are  beginning  to  weep. 

The  moon's  silver  hair  lies  uncurled, 

Down  the  broad-breusted  mountains  away; 
Ere  sunset's  red  glories  again  shall  be  furled 
On  the  walls  of  the  west,  o'er  the  plains  of  the  world, 
I  shall  rise  in  a  limitless  day. 

Oh!  come  not  in  tears  to  my  tomb, 

Nor  plant  with  frail  flowers  the  sod; 
There  is  rest  among  roses  too  sweet  for  its  gloom, 
And  life  where  the  lilies  eternally  bloom 
In  the  balm-breathing  gardens  of  God, 

Yet  deeply  those  memories  burn 

Which  bind  me  to  you  and  to  earth. 
And  I  sometimes  have  thought  that  my  being  would  yearn 
In  the  bowers  of  its  beautiful  home  to  return, 
And  visit  the  home  of  its  birth. 

'Twould  even  be  pleasant  to  stay, 

And  walk  by  your  side  to  the  last; 
But  the  land-breeze  of  Heaven  is  beginning  to  play, — 
Life's  shadows  are  meeting  Eternity's  day, 
And  its  tumult  is  hushed  in  the  past. 

Leona,  good  bye ;  should  the  grief 

That  is  gathering  now,  ever  be 
Too  dark  for  your  faith,  you  will  long  for  relief, 
And  remember,  the  journey,  though  lonesome,  is  brief, 
Over  lowland  and  river  to  me. 


ANSWER  TO  "  LEONA." 


My  darling,  I'm  close  to  your  bed. 

My  hand  is  still  laid  on  your  brow. 
And  I  feel  that  love's  magic  forever  has  fled, 
That  I  must  resign  you,  my  beautiful  dead, 
And  my  life  seems  all  desolate  now. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  49 

Oh,  speak  to  me,  darling,  once  morel 

Once  more  lift  your  eyes  to  my  face, 
With  the  same  trusting  glance  that  so  blessed  me  of  yore, 
And  the  same  tender  smile  that  to  greet  me  you  wore, 
When  I  thrilled  at  your  loving  embrace. 

Let  me  feel  the  caress  of  your  hand, 

Hear  your  voice  in  its  sweet  melody, 
Teach  me  more  of  that  home  in  the  "morning-lit;  land," 
Before  you  cross  o'er  to  the  "lieautiful  strand," 
Leaving  time  and  its  trials  to  me. 


All  alone  in  the  darkness  I  weep, 

But  you  heed  not  my  tears  as  thoy  fall ; 
Tis  Le'ona  who  calls,  but  you  slumber  so  deep. 
That  only  the  angels  can  waken  your  sleep. 
And  I  cannot  hear  their  soft  call. 

"  Leona," — the  whisper  comes  low. 

Like  the  soft  summer  wind  through  the  trees, 
And  I  listen  to  catch  the  faint  murmurous  flow 
Of  the  musical  words  that  are  rippling  so  low, 
While  my  spirit  is  fonned  by  the  breeze 

That  is  wafted  on  angels'  white  wings 

From  the  "  balm-breathing  gardens"  above ; 
And  sweet  meLxly  floats  o'er  my  l^roken  heart-strings 
As  some  magical  power  back  the  dim  curtain  flings. 
And  shows  me  the  form  that  I  love. 

Oh,  friend  of  my  youth's  happy  hours ! 

Oh,  love  of  my  life's  later  years! 
As  I  gaze  on  y<ju  now,  in  thr)se  heavenly  bowers. 
Where  angels  have  welcomed  and  crowned  you  with  flowers 
Enchanted  I  smile  throuifli  my  tears. 

But  the  mist  from  life's  river  will  rise 

And  hide  the  dear  vision  from  view; 
I  shall  call  in  the  night,  wlicu  no  echo  replies, 
And  i>ray  for  tlic  dawn  to  transtigure  the  skies, 
And  light  me  o'er  lowland  to  you. 


50  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

BEOTHER  WATKIXS. 

A  CAPITAL  STORY   AS  TOLD   BY   JOHN   B.   GOUGH. 

"We  have  the  suhjoined  discourse,  delivered  by  a  Southern 
divine,  who  had  removed  to  a  new  field  of  labor.  To  his 
new  flot;k,  on  the  first  day  of  his  ministration,  he  gave  some 
reminiscences  of  his  former  charge,  as  follows : 

"  My  beloved  brethering,  before  I  take  my  text  I  must  tell 
you  about  my  parting  with  my  old  congregation.  On  the 
morning  of  last  Sabbath  I  went  into  the  meeting-house  to 
preach  my  farewell  discourse.  Just  in  front  of  me  sot  the 
old  fathers  and  mothers  in  Israel;  the  tears  coursed  down 
their  furrowed  cheeks;  their  tottering  forms  and  quivering 
lips  breathed  out  a  sad— /are  ye  well,  brother  Watkins — ah!  Be- 
hind them  sot  the  middle-aged  men  and  matrons;  health 
and  vigor  beamed  from  every  countenance;  and  as  they 
looked  up  I  could  see  in  their  dreamy  eyes— /are  \je  wdl,  bro- 
ther Watkins— ah!  Behiud  them  sot  the  boys  and  girls  that 
I  had  baptized  and  gathered  into  the  Saboath-school.  [Many 
times  had  they  been  rude  and  boisterous,  but  now  their 
merry  laugh  was  hushed,  and  in  the  silence  I  could  hear— 
fare  ye  well,  brother  Watkins — ah  !  Around,  on  the  back  seats, 
and  in  the  aisles,  stood  and  sot  the  colored  brethering,  with 
their  black  foces  and  honest  hearts,  and  as  I  looked  up(ni 
them  I  could  see  a— fare  ye  well,  brother  Watkins— ah!  When 
I  had  finished  my  discourse  and  shaken  hands  with  the 
brethering — ah !  I  passed  out  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  old 
church — ah !  the  broken  steps,  the  flopping  blinds,  and  moss- 
covered  roof,  suggested  only— /are  ye  ivell,  brother  Watkins — 
ah!  I  mounted  my  old  gray  mare,  with  my  earthly  posses- 
sions in  my  saddle-bags,  and  as  I  passed  down  the  street  the 
servant-girls  stood  in  the  doors,  and  A\ith  their  brooms  waved 
me  a— fare  ye  well,  brother  Watkins — ah  !  As  I  passed  out  of 
the  village  the  low  wind  blew  softly  through  the  waving 
branches  of  thie  trees,  and  moaned— /are  ye  well,  brother  Wat- 
kins— ah!  I  came  down  to  the  creek,  and  as  the  old  mare 
stopped  to  drink  I  could  hear  the  water  rippling  over  the 
pebbles  a— fare  ye  well,  brother  Watkins — ah  !  And  even  the 
little   fishes,  as  their  bright  fins  glistened  in  the  sunlight,  I 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  51 

thought,  gathered  around  to  say,  as  best  they  could— /(«r<;  7je 
XL-ell,  brother  Watkins — ah!  I  was  slowly  passing  up  the  hill, 
meditating  U])on  the  sad  vicissitudes  and  mutations  of  life, 
when  suddenly  out  bounded  a  big  hog  from  a  fence-corner, 
with  aboo !  aboo !  and  I  came  to  the  ground  with  my  saddle- 
biigs  by  my  side.  As  I  lay  in  the  dust  of  the  road  my  old 
gray  mare  run  up  the  hill,  and  as  she  turned  the  top  she 
w-aved  hor  tail  back  at  me,  seemingly  to  say— fare  ye  well, 
brother  Watkins — ah!  I  tell  you,  my  brethering,  it  is  affecting 
times  to  part  w4th  a  congregation  you  have  been  wdth  for 
over  thirty  years — ah ! " 


NOT  VERY  FAR.— HoRATius  Bonar. 

Surely  yon  heaven,  where  angels  see  God's  face, 

Is  not  so  distant  as  we  deem 
From  this  low  earth.    'Tis  but  a  little  space, 

The  narrow  crossing  of  a  slender  stream; 
'Tis  but  a  veil  which  winds  might  blow  aside. 
Yes;  these  are  all  that  us  of  earth  divide 
From  the  bright  dwelling  of  the  glorified,— 

The  land  of  which  I  dream. 

These  penks  are  nearer  heaven  than  earth  below. 

These  hills  are  higher  than  they  seem ; 
'Tis  not  the  clouds  they  touch,  nor  the  soft  brow 

Of  tlie  o'erbending  azure,  as  we  deem. 
'Tis  tlio  blue  floor  of  heaven  that  they  upbear, 
And,  like  some  old  and  Avildly  rugged  stair. 
They  lift  us  to  the  land  where  all  is  fair, — 
The  land  of  which  I  dream. 

These  ocean  waves,  in  their  unmeasured  sweep, 

Are  brighter,  bluer  than  they  seem; 
True  image  here  of  the  celestial  deep, 

Fed  from  the  fulness  of  tlie  unfailing  stream — 
ITr-aven's  glassy  sea  of  everlasting  rest. 
With  not  a  })reat}i  to  stir  its  silent  breast — 
The  s(!a  that  laves  the  hind  where  all  are  blest, — 
The  land  of  which  1  dream. 


ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  these  keen  stars,  the  bridal  gems  of  night, 

Are  purer,  loveUer  than  they  seem ; 
Filled  from  the  inner  fountain  of  deep  light, 

They  pour  down  heaven's  own  beam ; 
Clear  speaking  from  their  throne  of  glorious  blue, 
In  accents  ever  ancient,  ever  new. 
Of  the  glad  home  above,  beyond  our  view, — 

The  land  of  which  I  dream. 

This  life  of  ours,  these  lingering  years  of  earth, 

Are  briefer,  swifter  than  they  seem; 
A  little  while,  and  the  great  second  birth 

Of  time  shall  come, — the  prophet's  ancient  theme. 
Then  He,  the  King,  the  Judge,  at  length  shall  come, 
And  for  this  desert,  where  we  sadly  roam. 
Shall  give  the  kingdom  for  our  endless  home, — 

The  land  of  which  I  dream. 


GRIPER  GREG. 


Griper  Greg,  of  the  village  of  Willoughby  "Waterless, 
A  miserly  hunks  who  was  sonless  and  duughterless, 
Nieceless  and  nephewless,  why  did  he  haste  to  lay 
Gold  in  queer  corners,  for  strangers  to  waste  away? 

Were  there  no  claimants  upon  his  cold  charity- 
Poor  fellow-creatures  heart-void  of  hilarity — 

Fatherless,  motherless, 

Sisterless,  brotherless, 

Husbandless,  wifeless, 

Forkless  and  knifeless, 
Dinnerless,  supperless  wretches  to  pray  or  beg-^- 
None  in  his  neighborhood,  loudly  to  say  to  Greg: 
"  Stone-hearted  miser,  behold  you,  we  perish ! 
Give  us  some  victuals  our  faint  frames  to  cherish?" 

Yes,  there  were  orphans,  Tom,  Jack,  Dick,  and  Ned, 
Lean,  tiny  creatures,  ill  clothed  and  worse  fed; 
Widows  there  were,  Dinah,  Rutli,  Prue,  and  Kate, 
Bearers  alike  of  the  hard  blows  of  Fate ; 
Old  pauper  Will,  too,  who  traveled  on  crutches. 
With  mouth  pulled  aside  by  neural^ical  clutches, 
And  limbs  drawn  awry  by  rheumatical  twitches, 
Bewrapped  in  old  blankets,  without  coat  or  breeches- 


N  UJi  13  EE    SEVEN.  53 

No  sifter,  no  daughter,  no  wife,  to  take  care  of  him ; 

riie  very  dogs  barked  "Bow-wow!  Beggar!  beware  of  him!" 

^Vnd  many  more  hunger-bit,  tatter-chid  sorrowers 
I'ain  would  have  been  relieved,  beggars  or  borrowers 
At  Griper  Greg's  door,  where  they  often  cried  piteously ; 
But  Greg — he  grinned  fiercely,  and  fro  wned  on  them  viciously. 

One  day  the  snow  fell  thick  and  fast, 

One  drear  mid-winter's  day; 
And  Greg  was  out  upon  the  Wiiste 

That  round  his  cottage  lay. 

No  sight  was  there,  except  the  snow, 

Upon  the  wild,  wide  moor; 
And  in  Greg's  heart  began  to  grow 
Stern,  deadly  self-accusings,  how 

He'd  used  the  houseless  poor. 
"  If  I  die  here,"  Greg  wildly  cried, 

"  ^ly  soul's  forever  lost ! 
Had  I  my  gold  here  by  my  side,     - 

It  would  not  pay  the  cost 
To  ransom  me  from  endless  pain! 
Oh !  could  I  reach  my  home  again, 
I'd  give  to  every  suffering  fellow 
Whiskey  enough  to  make  him  mellow." 

"  They  are  good  words  ye'v  said ! "  cried  beggar-man  Pat, 

Who  wandered,  all  weathers,  without  coat  or  hat, 

Upftn  the  wide  waste,  and  now  chanced  to  be  near 

Enough  to  the  miser  his  heart -grief  to  hear: 

"They  are  good  words  ye'v  said;  and  no  better  by  preacher 

AVere  ever  delivered  about  the  dear  cra\i:ure; 

Make  me  mellow  witli  him,  and  no  ill  shall  betide  ye, 

For  to  Willoughby  Waterless  safely  I'll  guide  ye ! " 

"Oh,  joy!"  shouted  Greg,  "guide  me  home  from  the  waste, 

And  the  sweetest  of  nuitton  this  night  ye  shall  taste!" 

"  Had  luck  to  your  mutton!  be't  sweeter  than  candy, 

'Tis  wormwood  comjiared  with  strong  whiskey  or  brandy!" 

"Then  I'll  (ill  ye  with  Vjrandy,"  cried  Greg,  in  grim  fear 

That  if  ho  refused  tie  would  jx'rish,  left  here. 

iSo  home  sped  the  miser,  by  beggar  Pat  guided. 

And  home  safely  reached — but  tliere,  ill  Greg  betided. 

Griper  Greg,  all  a-cold,  shared  the  brandy  with  Pat, 
Till  discri'tioii  and  saCcty  he  wlioUy  forgat ; 
And  joked  of  liis  gold  iuiddled  up  in  sly  corners. 
To  hide  it  from  burglars,  by  night,  anrt  day-sorners. 

TT 


T)i  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Sleep  seized  him  so  nimbly,  he  stopped  in  his  story, 
And  Pat — wide  awake  then — was  quite  in  his  glory, 
And  soon  picked  the  locks  and  was  off"  with  the  plunder! 
Greg  waked  the  nest  morning  with  sore  grief  and  wonder 
To  tind  the  noon  passed  while  he  had  been  sleeping; 
Then  looked  for  his  gold,  and  forthwith  fell  to  weeping. 
*0h,  it's  gone— it's  all  gone!  and  the  curses  it's  brought  me 
Might  all  have  been  saved  if  I'd  only  bethought  me 
Of  sweet  love  and  kindness,  and  had  friends  about  me, 
For  then  on  the  heath  they  would  surely  have  sought  me! 
But  to  scrape  and  to  save  has  been  always  my  plan, 
And  so  nobody  loves  me — a  wretched  old  man ! " 

Meanwhile  the  thief-beggar-man  far  oif  was  drinking 
With  horrid  companions,  and,  cunningly  winking. 
Said,  "Look  nere,  my  boys!  when  you  handle  yer  tools, 
Always  try  'em  on  misers,  for  ynisers  are  fools!" 


'BIAH  CATHCART'S  PROPOSAL —H.  W.  Beecher. 

They  were  walking  silently  and  gravely  home  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  under  the  tall  elms  that  lined  the  street  for  half 
a  mile.  Neither  had  spoken.  There  had  been  some  little 
parish  quarrel,  and  on  that  afternoon  the  text  was,  "A  new 
commandment  I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another." 
But  after  the  sermon  was  done  the  text  was  the  best  part  of 
it.  Some  one  said  that  Parson  Marsh's  sermons  were  like 
the  meeting-house, — the  steeple  was  the  only  thing  that 
folks  could  see  after  they  got  home. 

They  walked  slowly,  without  a  word.  Once  or  twice  'Biah 
essayed  to  speak,  but  was  still  silent.  He  i)lucked  a  flower 
from  between  the  pickets  of  the  fence,  and  unconsciously 
pulled  it  to  pieces,  as,  with  a  troubled  face,  he  glanced  at 
Rachel,  and  then,  as  fearing  she  would  catch  his  eye,  he 
looked  at  the  trees,  at  the  clouds,  at  the  grass,  at  everything, 
and  saw  nothing, — nothing  but  Rachel.  The  most  solemn 
hour  of  human  experience  is  not  that  of  Death,  but  of  Life, 
— when  the  heart  is  born  again,  and  from  a  natural  heart 
becomes  a  heart  of  Love !  What  wonder  that  it  is  a  silent 
hour  and  perplexed? 


NUMBER    SKVEN.  55 

Is  the  soul  confused?  Why  not,  when  the  divine  Spirit, 
roUing  clear  across  the  aerial  ocean,  breaks  upon  the  heart's 
shore  with  all  the  mystery  of  heaven?  Is  it  strange  that 
uncertain  lights  dim  the  eye,  if  above  the  head  of  him  that 
truly  loves  hover  clouds  of  saintly  spirits?  Why  should  not 
the  tongue  stammer  and  refuse  its  accustomed  offices,  when 
all  the  world — skies,  trees,  plains,  hills,  atmosphere,  and  the 
solid  earth — springs  forth  in  new  colors,  with  strange  mean- 
ings, and  seems  to  chant  for  the  soul  the  glory  of  that  mystic 
Law  with  which  God  has  bound  to  himself  his  infinite  realm, 
— the  law  of  Love?  Then,  for  the  first  time,  when  one  so 
loves  that  love  is  sacrifice,  death  to  self,  resurrection,  and 
glory,  is  man  brought  into  harmony  witn  the  whole  universe ; 
and,  like  him  who  beheld  the  seventh  heaven,  hears  things 
unlawful  to  be  uttered. 

The  great  elm-trees  sighed  as  the  fitful  breeze  swept  their 
tops.  The  soft  shadows  flitted  back  and  forth  beneath  the 
walker's  feet,  fell  upon  them  in  light  and  dark,  ran  over  the 
ground,  quivered  and  shook,  until  sober  Cathcart  thought 
that  his  heart  was  throwing  its  shifting  network  of  hope  and 
fear  along  the  ground  before  him. 

How  strangely  his  voice  sounded  to  him,  as,  at  length,  all 
his  emotions  could  only  say,  "Rachel, — how  did  you  like  the 
sermon?" 

Quietly  she  answered, — 

"  I  liked  the  text." 

"*A  new  commandment  I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one 
another.'     Rachel,  will  you  help  me  keep  it?" 

At  first  she  looked  down  and  lost  a  little  cotor ;  then,  rais- 
ing her  face,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large  eyes,  with  a  look 
both  clear  and  tender.  It  was  as  if  some  painful  restraint 
had  given  way,  and  her  eyes  blossomed  into  full  beauty. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  They  walked  home  hand 
in  hand.  He  neither  smiled  nor  exulted.  He  saw  neither 
the  trees,  nor  the  long  level  rays  of  sunlight  that  were  slant- 
ingacro.ssthe  fields.  His  soul  was  overshadowed  with  acloud 
as  if  God  were  drawing  near.  He  had  never  felt  so  solcnui. 
This  woman's  life  had  l)een  inlnistcd  lo  him! 

Long  years, — the  wliole  length  of  life, — the  eternal  years 
beyond,  seemed  in  an  indistinct  way  to  rise  up  in  his  imagi- 


56  ONE    IIUNDEED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

nation.  All  that  he  could  say,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door, 
was, — 

"  Rachel,  this  is  forever — forever." 

She  again  said  nothing,  but  turned  to  him  with  a  clear 
and  ojien  face,  in  which  joy  and  trust  wrought  beauty.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  a  light  fell  upon  him  from  her  eyes- 
There  was  a  look  that  descended  and  covered  him  as  with 
\n  atmosphere ;  and  all  the  way  home  he  was  as  one  walk- 
ing in  a  luminous  cloud.  He  had  never  felt  such  personal 
dignity  as  now.  He  that  wins  such  love  is  crowned,  and 
may  call  himself  king.  He  did  not  feel  the  earth  under  his 
feet.  As  he  drew  near  his  lodgings,  the  sun  went  down. 
The  children  began  to  pour  forth,  no  longer  restrained. 
Abiah  turned  to  his  evening  chores.  No  animal  that  night 
but  had  reason  to  bless  him.  The  children  found  him  unu- 
sually good  and  tender.  And  Aunt  Keziah  said  to  her  sis- 
ter,— 

"Abiah's  been  goin'  to  meetin'  very  regular  for  some  weeks, 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder,  by  the  way  he  looks,  if  he  had  got 
a  hope.    I  trust  he  ain't  deceivin'  himself." 

He  had  a  hope,  and  he  was  not  deceived ;  for  in  a  few 
months,  at  the  close  of  the  service  one  Sunday  morning,  the 
minister  read  from  the  pulpit:  "Marriage  is  intended  be- 
tween Abiah  Cat  heart  and  Rachel  Liscomb,  both  of  thia 
town,  and  this  is  the  first  publishing  of  the  banns." 


LOST  MR.  BLAKE.— W.  S.  Gilbert. 

Mr.  Blake  was  a  regular  out-and-out  hardened  sinner, 

Who  wa?  quite  out  of  the  pale  of  Christianity,  so  to  speak. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  smoking  a  long  pipe  and  drinking  a 

glass  of  grog  on  Sunday  after  dinner, 

And  seldom  thought  of  going  to  church  more  than  twice 

or — ^f   Good  Friday  or  Christmas  Day  happened  to 

com",  in  it — three  times  a  week. 

He  was  quite  indifferent  as  to  the  special  kinds  of  dresses 
That  t'^^e  clergyman  wore  at  the  church  where  he  used  to 
go  t«  pray, 


NUMEEB    SFVEN.  57 

And  whatever  he  did  in  the  way  of  relieving  a  chap's  dis- 
tresses, 
He  always  did  in  a  sneaking,  underhanded,  hole-and-cor- 
ner sort  of  way. 

I  have  known  him  indulge  in  profane,  ungentlemanly  em- 
pluitics*, 
"When  the  Protestant  Church  has  been  divided  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  proper  width  of  a  chasuble's  hem; 
I  have   even  known  him  to  sneer  at  albs — and  as  for  dal- 
matics, 
Words  can't  convey  an  idea  of  the  contempt  he  expressed 
for  them. 


He  didn't  believe  in  persons  who,  not  being  well  off  them- 
selves, are  obliged  to  confine  their  charitable  exertions 
to  collecting  money  from  wealthier  jieijple, 
And  looked  upon  individuals  of  the  former  class  as  eccle- 
siastical hawks ; 

He  used  to  say  that  he  would  no  more  think  of  interfering 
with  his  priest's  robes  than  with  his  church  or  his 
steeple, 
And  that  he  did  not  consider  his  soul  imperilled  because 
somebody  over  whom  he  had  no  influence  whatever, 
chose  to  dress  himself  up  like  an  exaggerated  Guy 
Fawkes. 


This  shocking  old  vagabond  was  so  unutterably  shameless 
That   he  actually  went  a-courting  a  very  respectable  ancl 
pious  middle-aged  sister,  by  the  name  of  Biggs. 
She  was  a  rather  attractive  widow,  whose  life  as  such  had 
always  been  particularly  blameless; 
Her  first  husband  had  left  her  a  secure  but  moderate  com^ 
I)etence,  owing  to  some  fortunate  speculations  in  the 
matter  of  figs. 


She  was  an  excellent  person  in  every  way — and  won  the  re-, 
spect  even  of  Mrs.  Grundy, — 
She  was  a  good  housewife,  too,  and  wouldn't  have  wasted 
a  j)cnny  if  she  had  owned  the  Koh-i-noor. 

She  was  just  as  strict  as  he  was  lax  in  her  observance  of  Sun- 
day, 
And  bring  a  good  economist,  and  charitable  besi<l(>s,  she 
took  all  the  old  bones  and  cold  potatoes  and  broken 
pie-crusts  and  candle-ends,  (when  she  had  quite  done 
with  them,)  ami  made  them  into  an  excellent  soup  for 
the  deserving  poor. 

61* 


58  OWE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS      . 

f  am  sorry  to  say  that  she  rather  took  to  Blake — that  outcast 
of  society, — 
And  when  respectable  brothers  who  were  fond  of  her  be 
gan  to  look  dubious  and  to  cough, 
She  would  say,  "  Oh,  my  friends,  its  because  I  hope  to  bring 
this  poor  benighted  soul  back  to  virtue  and  in-opriety," 
And  besides,  the  poor  benighted  soul,  with  all  his  faults 
was  uncommonly  well  off. 

A.nd  when  Mr.  Blake's  dissipated  friends  called  his  attention 
to  the  frown  or  the  pout  of  her. 
Whenever  he  did  anything  which  appeared  to  her  to  savor 
of  an  unmentionable  place. 
He  would  say  she  would  be  a  very  decent  old  girl  when  all 
that  nonsense  was  knoi-ked  out  of  her, — 
And  his  method  of  knocking  it  out  of  her  is  one  that  cov- 
ered him  with  disgrace. 

She  was  fond  of  going  to  church  services  four  times  every 
Sunday,  and  four  or  five  times  in  the  week,  and  nevej 
seemed  to  pall  of  them. 
So  he  huuted  out  all  the  churches  within  a  convenient  dis- 
tance that  had  services  at  different  hours,  so  to  speak; 

And   when  he  had  married  her  he  positively  insisted  upon 
their  goiug  to  all  of  them. 
So  they  contrived  to  do  about  twelve  churches  every  Sun- 
day, and,  if  they  had  luck,  from  twenty-two  to'twen- 
ty-three  in  the  course  of  the  week. 

She  was  fond  of  dropping  his  sovereigns  ostentatiously  into 
the  plate,  and  she  liked  to  see  them  stand  out  rather 
conspicuously  against  the  commonplace  half-crowns 
and  shillings, 
So  he  took  her  to  all  the  charity  sermons,  and  if  by  any 
extraordinary  chance  there  wasn't  a  chanty  sermon 
anywhere,  he  would  drop  a  couple  of  sovereigns  (one 
for  him  and  one  for  her,)  into  the  poor-box  at  tlie 
door; 

And  as  he  always  deducted  the  sums  thus  given  in  charity 
irom  the  housekeeping  money,  and  the  money  lie 
allowed  her  for  her  bonnets  and  frillings. 
She  soon  began  to  find  that  even  I'harity,  if  you  allow  it 
to  interfere  with  your  personal  luxuries,  becomes  an 
intolerable  bore. 

On   Sundays  she  was  always  melancholy  and  anything  but 
good  society, 
For  that  day  in  her  household  was  a  day  of  sighings  an<i 
sobbings  and  wringing  of  hands  and  shaking  of  heads ; 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  5& 

She  wouldn't  hear  of  a  button  being  sewn  on  a  glove,  because 
it  was  a  work  neither  of  necessity  nor  of  piety, 
And  strictly  prohibited  her  servants  from  amusing  them- 
selves, or  in<leed  doing  anything  at  all  excei:>t  dusting 
the  drawing-rooms,  cleaning  the  boots  and  shoes,  cook- 
ing the  parlor  dinner,  waiting  generally  on  the  family, 
and  making  the  beds. 

But  Blake  went  even  further  than  that,  and  said  that  people 
should  do  their  own  works  of  necessity,  and  not  dele- 
gate them  to  j)ersons  in  a  menial  situation. 
So  he  wouldn't  allow  his  servants  to  do  so  much  as  even 
answer  a  bell. 

Here  he  is  making  his  wife  carry  up  the  water  for  her  bath 
to  the  second  floor,  much  against  her  inclination, — 
And  why  in  the  world  the  gentleman  who  illustrates  these 
ballads  has  put  him  iu  a  cocked  hat  is  more  than  I  can 
tell. 

After  about  three  months  of  this  sort  of  thing,  taking  the 
smooth  with  the  rough  of  it, 
(Blacking  her  own  boots  and  peeling  her  own  potatoes 
was  not  her  notion  of  connubial  l;liss,) 
Mrs.  Blake  began  to  find  that  she  had  pretty  nearly  had 
enough  of  it, 
And  came,  in  course  of  time,  to  think  that  Blake's  own 
original  hne  of  conduct  wasn't  so  much  amiss. 


^c 


And  now  that  wicked  person — that  detestable  sinner  ("  Belial 
Blake"   his  friends  and  well-wishers  call  him  for  his 
atrocities,) 
And  his  poor  deluded  victim,  whom  all  her  Christian  bro- 
thers dislike  and  pity  so, 

Go  to  the  parish  church  only  on  Sunday  morning  and  after- 
noon and  occasionally  on  a  week-day,  and  spend  their 
evenings  in  connubial  fondlings  and  afiectionate  re- 
ciprocities. 
And  I  sliould  like  to  know  where  in  the  world  (or  rather, 
out  of  it)  they  exi)ect  to  go. 


SHALL  THE  BABY  STAY? 

T:i  a  little  brown  house, 
Witli  scar(;e  room  for  a  mouse. 
Came  with  morning's  first  ray, 
One  remarkable  day, 


60  ONE     HUNDRED     CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

(Thonpjh  who  told  her  the  way, 
I  am  sure  I  can't  say) 
A  young  lady  so  wee 
That  you  scarcely  could  see  ' 
Her  snaall  speck  of  a  nose ; 
And,  to  speak  of  her  toes, — 
Though  it  seems  hardly  fair, 
Since  they  surely  were  there. 
Keep  them  covered  we  must  ;- 
You  must  take  them  on  trust. 

Now  this  little  brown  house. 
With  scarce  rojm  for  a  mouse. 
Was  quite  full  of  small  boys, 
With  their  books  and  their  toys, 
Their  wild  bustle  and  noLse. 

"My  dear  lads,"  quoth  papa, 
"  We've  too  many  by  far ; 
Tell  us,  what  can  we  do 
With  this  damsel  so  new? 
We've  no  room  for  her  here. 
So  to  me  'tis  quite  clear, 

Though  it  gives  me  great  pain, 

I  must  hang  her  again 
On  the  tree  whence  she  came, 
(Do  not  cry,  there's  no  blame) 
With  her  white  blanket  round  her, 
Just  as  Nurse  Russell  found  her." 

Said  stout  little  Ned, 
"  I'll  stay  all  day  in  bed. 
Squeezed  up  nice  and  small. 
Very  close  to  the  wall." 
Then  sjwke  Tommy,  "  I'll  go 
To  the  cellar  below; 
I'll  just  travel  about, 
But  not  try  to  get  out ; 
Till  you're  all  fast  asleep; 
And  so  quiet  I'll  be 
You'll  not  dream  it  is  me." 
Then  flaxen-haired  Will, 
"  I'll  be  dreadfully  still ; 
On  the  back  stairj  I'll  stay. 
Way  off,  out  of  the  way." 

Master  Johnny,  the  fair, 
Shook  his  bright,  curly  hair, 
"  Here's  a  nice  place  for  me, 
pear  papa,  do  you  see? 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  61 

I  just  fit  in  so  tight 
I  could  stand  here  all  night." 
And  a  niche  in  the  wall 
Held  his  figure  so  small. 

Quoth  the  father,  "  AVell  done, 
My  brave  darlings,  come  on! 
Here's  a  shoulder  for  Will, 
Pray  sit  still,  sir,  sit  still! 
Valiant  Thomas,  for  thee, 
A  good  seat  on  my  knee, 
And  Edward,  thy'brother. 
Can  perch  on  the  other; 
Baby  John,  take  my  back ; 
Now,  who  says  we  can't  pack? 

"  So  love  gives  us  room, 

And  our  birdie  shall  stay. 
We'll  keep  her,  my  boys, 

Till  God  takes  her  away," 


LEFT  ALONE  AT  EIGHTY— Alice  Robbins. 

What  did  you  say,  dear— breakfast  ? 

Somehow  I've  slept  too  late ; 
You  are  very  kind,  dear  Etfie ; 

Go  tell  them  not  to  wait. 
I'll  dress  as  quick  as  ever  I  can, 

Mv  old  hands  tremble  sore, 
And"  Polly,  who  used  to  help,  dear  heart, 

Lies  t'other  side  of  the  door. 

Put  up  the  old  pipe,  deary, 

I  couldn't  i^moke  to-day; 
I'm  sort  o'  dazed  and  frightened, 

And  don't  know  what  to  say. 
It's  lonesome  in  the  house  here, 

And  lonesome  out  o'  door — 
I  never  knew  what  lonesome  meant 

In  all  my  life  before. 

The  bees  go  humming  the  whole  day  long. 
And  th(!  first  June  rose  has  bl(nvn; 

And  I  am  eighty,  dear  Lord,  to-day. 
Too  old  to  be  lefi  aloneJ 

rr* 


62  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Oil,  heart  of  love !  so  still  and  cold, 

Oh,  precious  lips  so  white ! 
For  the  tirst  sad  hours  in  sixty  years, 

You  were  out  of  my  reach  last  night. 

You've  cut  the  flower.     You're  very  kind; 

She  rooted  it  last  May. 
It  was  only  a  slip ;  I  pulled  the  rose, 

And  threw  the  stem  away. 
But  she,  sweet,  thrifty  soul^  bent  dowm, 

And  planted  it  where  she  stood ; 
"Dear,  maybe  the  fluwers  are  li\dng,"  she  said, 

"Asleep  in  this  bit  of  wood." 

I  can't  rest,  dear — I  cannot  rest ; 

Let  the  old  man  have  his  will. 
And  wander  from  porch  to  garden-post — 

The  house  is  so  deathly  still  ;— 
Wander,  and  long  for  a  sight  of  the  gate 

She  has  left  ajar  for  me ; 
We  had  got  so  used  to  each  other,  dear, 

So  used  to  each  other,  you  see. 

Sixty  years,  and  so  wise  and  good, 

She  made  me  a  better  man ; 
From  the  moment  I  kissed  her  fliir,  young  face, 

Our  lover's  life  began. 
And  seven  fine  boys  she  has  given  me. 

And  out  of  the  seven  not  one 
But  the  noblest  father  in  all  the  land 

Would  be  proud  to  call  his  sou. 

Oh,  well,  dear  Lord,  I'll  be  patient ! 

But  I  feel  sore  broken  up; 
At  eighty  years  it's  an  awesome  thing 

To  drain  such  a  bitter  cup. 
I  know  there's  Joseph,  and  John,  and  Hal, 

And  four  good  men  beside ; 
But  a  hundred  sons  couuldn't  be  to  me, 

Like  the  woman  I  made  my  bride. 

My  little  Polly— so  bright  and  fair ! 

So  winsome  and  good  and  sweet ! 
She  had  roses  twined  in  her  sunny  hair, 

White  shoes  on  her  dainty  feet; 
And  I  held  her  hand— was  it  yesterday 

That  we  stood  up  to  be  wed? 
And — no,  I  remember,  I'm  eighty  to-day, 

And  my  dear  wife  Polly  Ls  dead. 


NUMBER    SEVEN,  G3 


THE  GRAY  SWAN.— Alice  CaJiy. 

"Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Eliliu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship?" 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew, — 

"Your  Uttle  lad,  your  Elihu?" 
He  said  with  trembling  lip, — 
"What  little  lad?  what  ship?" 

"What  little  lad!  as  if  there  could  be 
Another  such  a  one  as  he! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say? 
Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  ."-ea 
The  moment  I  j^ut  him  off  my  knee! 

It  was  just  the  other  day 

The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 

"The  other  day?"  the  sailor's  eyes 
Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise, — 

"The  other  day?  the  Swanf'\ 
His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 
"Ay,  ay,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  hes 

The  jacket  he  had  on." 
"And  so  your  lad  is  gone?" 

"Gone  with  the  Simn."    "And  did  she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir?" 
"Why,  to  be  sure!   I've  seen  from  the  land. 
Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her, — 

A  sight  to  I'emembei',  sir." 

"But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 

All  tiiis  was  twenty  years  ago? 

I  stood  on  the  (>r(ii/  Sirdu'a  deck, 

And  to  that  lad  1  saw  you  tlinnv, 

Taking  it  off,  as  it  miglit  be,  so, 
TJie  kercliicf  from  j'our  neck." 
"Ay,  and  he'll  bring  it  back ! " 

"And  did  llie  little  lawless  lad 

Tliat  lias  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  SirarCa  crew?" 
"Lawless!   the  man  is  going  mad! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had, — 


64  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew! 
What  would  you  have  him  do?  " 

"And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you  sign 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 
"Hold!  if  'twas  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  l)rine, 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave? 

Tut,  man,  what  would  you  have?" 

"Gone  twenty  years, — a  long,  long  cniise, 
'Twas  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live. 
And  come  back  home,  think  you  you  can 
Forgive  him?" — "Miserable  man. 

You're  mad  as  the  sea, — you  rave,— 
What  have  I  to  forgive?" 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief    She  was  wild. 
"My  God!  my  Father!  is  it  true 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu? 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child ! 

My  dead, — my  living  child!" 


JIMMY  BUTLER  AND  THE  OWL. 

'Twas  in  the  summer  of  '46  that  I  landed  at  Hamilton, 
fresh  as  a  new  pratie  just  dug  from  the  "  ould  sod,"  and  wid 
a  light  heart  and  a  heavy  bundle  I  sot  off  for  the  township 
of  Buford,  tiding  a  taste  of  a  song,  as  merry  a  young  fellow 
as  iver  took  the  road.  Well,  I  trudged  on  and  on,  past  many 
a  plisint  pkice,  pleasin'  myself  wid  the  thought  that  some 
day  I  might  have  a  place  of  my  own,  wid  a  world  of  chick- 
ens and  ducks  and  pigs  and  childer  about  the  door ;  and 
along  in  the  afternoon  of  the  sicond  day  I  got  to  Buford  vil- 
lage. A  cousin  of  me  mother's,  one  Dennis  O'Dowd,  lived 
about  sivin  miles  from  there,  and  I  wanted  to  make  his  place 
that  night,  so  I  inquired  the  way  at  the  tavern,  and  was  luck> 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  05 

to  find  a  man  who  was  goin'  part  of  the  way  an'  would  show 
nie  the  way  to  lind  Dennis.  Sure  he  was  very  kind  indade, 
an'  when  I  got  out  of  his  wagon  he  pointed  me  through  the 
wo<jd  and  tould  me  to  go  straight  south  a  mile  an' a  half,  and 
the  first  house  would  be  Dennis's. 

"An'  you've  no  time  to  lose  now,"  said  he,  "  for  the  sun  is 
low,  and  mind  you  don't  get  lost  in  the  woods." 

"  Is  it  lost  now,"  said  I,  "  that  I'd  be  gittin,  an'  me  uncle 
as  great  a  navigator  as  iver  steered  a  ship  across  the  thrack- 
less  say !  Not  a  bit  of  it,  though  I'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  your 
kind  advice,  and  thank  yiz  for  the  ride." 

An'  wid  that  he  drove  off  an'  left  me  alone.  I  shouldered 
me  bundle  bravely,  an'  whistlin'  a  bit  of  time  for  company 
like,  I  piLshed  into  the  bush.  Well,  I  went  a  long  way  over 
bogs,  and  turuin'  round  among  the  bush  an' trees  till  I  began 
to  think  I  must  be  well  nigh  to  Dennis's.  But,  bad  cess  to 
it !  all  of  a  sudden  I  came  out  of  the  woods  at  the  very  iden- 
tical spot  where  I  started  in,  which  I  knew  by  an  ould 
crotched  tree  that  seemed  to  be  stantUn'  on  its  head  and 
kitkiu'  up  its  heels  to  make  divarsion  of  me.  By  this  time 
it  was  growin'  dark,  and  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I 
started  in  a  second  time,  determined  to  keep  straight  south 
this  time,  and  no  mistake.  I  got  on  bravely  for  a  wliile,  but 
och  hone !  och  hone !  it  got  so  dark  I  couldn't  see  the  trees, 
and  I  bumped  me  nose  and  barked  me  shins,  while  the  mis- 
katies  bit  me  hands  and  face  to  a  blister;  an'  after  tumblin' 
and  stumblin'  around  till  I  was  fairly  bamfoozled,  I  sat  down 
on  a  log,  all  of  a  trimble,  to  think  that  I  was  lost  intirely, 
an'  that  maybe  a  lion  or  some  other  wild  craythur  would  de- 
.  vour  me  before  morning. 

Just  then  I  heard  somebody  a  long  way  off  say,  "Whip 
poor  Will ! "  "  Bedad,"  scz  I,  "  I'm  glad  it  isn't  Jamie  that's 
got  to  take  it,  though  it  seems  it's  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger  they  are  doin'  it,  or  wliy  sliould  they  say,  'poor  Will?' 
an'  sure  they  can't  be  Injin,  haythin,  or  naygur,  for  it's  plain 
English  they're  afther  spakin'.  ^laybe  they  might  help  me 
out  o'  this,"  so  I  sliouted  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  "A  lost 
man!"    Tliin  I  listened.     Prisently  an  answer  came. 

"Wlio?  Whoo?  Whooo?" 

"Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver!"  sez  I,  as  loud  as  I  could  roar, 


66  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

an'  snatchin'  up  me  bundle  an'  stick,  I  started  in  the  dire?- 
tion  of  the  voice.  Wliin  I  tliought  I  had  got  near  the  place 
I  stopped  and  shouted  again,  "A  lost  man ! " 

"Who!  Whoo!  Whooo!"  said  a  voice  right  over  my 
head. 

"Sure,"  thinks  I,  "it's  a  mighty  quare  place  for  a  man  to 
be  at  this  time  of  night ;  maybe  it's  some  settler  scrapin' 
sugar  olf  a  sugar-bush  for  the  children's  breakfast  in  the 
mornin'.  But  where's  Will  and  the  rest  of  them?"  All  this 
wint  through  me  head  like  a  flasn,  an'  thin  I  answered  his 
inquiry. 

"Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver,"  sez  I;  "and  if  it  wouldn't  in- 
convanience  yer  honor,  would  yez  be  kind  enough  to  step 
down  and  show  me  the  way  to  the  house  of  Dennis  O' 
Dowd?" 

"  Who !  Whoo !  Wliooo ! "  sez  he. 

"Dennis  O'Dowd,"  sez  I,  civil  enough,  "and  a  dacent  man 
he  is,  and  first  cousin  to  me  own  mother." 

"  Who !  Whoo !  Whooo ! "  sez  he  again. 

"Me  mother!"  sez  I, and  as  fine  a  woman  as  iver  peeled  a 
biled  pratie  wid  her  .thumb  nail,  and  her  maiden  name  was 
Molly  McFiggin." 

"Who!  Wlioo!  Whooo!" 

"Paddy  McFiggin!  bad  luck  to  yer  deaf  ould  head,  Paddy 
McFiggin,  I  say — do  ye  hear  that?  An' he  was  the  tallest 
man  in  all  the  county  Tij^perary,  excipt  Jim  Doyle,  the  black- 
smith." 

"Who!  Whoo!  Whooo!" 

"Jim  Doyle  the  blacksmith,"  sez  I,  "ye  good  for  nothin* 
blaggurd  naygur,  and  if  yiz  don't  come  down  and  show  me 
the  way  this  min't,  I'll  climb  up  there  and  break  every  bone 
in  your  skin,  ye  spalpeen,  so  sure  as  me  name  is  Jimmy 
Butler!" 

"  Who !  Whoo !  Whooo ! "  sez  he,  as  impident  as  iver. 

I  said  niver  a  word,  but  la\dn'  down  me  bundle,  and  takin' 
me  stick  in  me  teeth,  I  began  to  climb  the  tree.  Whin  I  got 
among  the  branches  I  looked  quietly  around  till  I  saw  a  pair 
of  big  eyes  just  forninst  me. 

"  Whist."  sez  I,  "  and  I'll  let  him  have  a  taste  of  an  Irish 
stick,"  and  wid  that  I  let  drive  and  lost  me  balance  an'  ciimo 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  6? 

tumlolin'  to  the  ground,  nearly  breakin'  me  neck  widtlie  fall. 
Whin  I  came  to  me  sinsis  I  had  a  very  sore  head  wid  a  lump 
on  it  like  a  goose  egg,  and  half  of  me  Sunday  coat-tail  torn 
ofi'  intirely.  I  spoke  to  the  chap  in  the  tree,  but  could  git 
niver  an  answer,  at  all,  at  all. 

Sure,  thinks  I,  he  must  have  gone  home  to  rowl  up  his 
head,  for  by  the  powers  I  didn't  throw  me  stick  for  no- 
thin'. 

Well,  by  this  time  the  moon  was  up  and  I  could  see  a  lit- 
tle, and  I  detarmined  to  make  one  more  efibrt  to  reach 
Dennis's. 

I  wint  on  cautiously  for  a  while,  an'  thin  I  heard  a  bell. 
"  Sure,"  sez  I,  "  I'm  comin'  to  a  settlement  now,  for  1  hear 
the  church  bell."  I  kept  on  toward  the  sound  till  I  came  to 
an  ould  cow  wid  a  bell  on.  She  started  to  run,  but  I  was  too 
quick  for  her,  and  got  her  by  the  tail  and  hung  on,  thinkin' 
that  maybe  she  would  take  me  out  of  the  woods.  On  we 
wint,  like  an  ould  country  steeple-chase,  till,  sure  enough, 
we  came  out  to  a  clearin'  and  a  house  in  sight  wid  a  light  in 
it.  So,  leavin'  the  ould  cow  puffin'  and  blowin'  in  a  shed,  I 
went  to  the  house,  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  whose  should 
it  l)e  but  Dennis's. 

He  gave  me  a  raal  Irish  welcome,  and  introduced  me  to 
his  two  daughters — as  purty  a  pair  of  girls  as  iver  ye  clapped 
an  eye  on.  But  whin  I  tould  him  me  adventure  in  the 
woods,  and  about  the  fellow  who  made  fun  of  me,  they  all 
laughed  and  roared,  and  Dennis  said  it  was  an  owl. 

"An  ould  what?"  sez  I. 

"Why,  an  owl,  a  bird,"  sez  he. 

"Do  ye  tell  me  now?"  sez  I,  " Sure  it's  a  quare  country 
and  a  quare  bird." 

And  thin  thoy  all  laughed  again,  till  at  last  I  laughed  my- 
self, that  hearty  like,  and  dr<ii)ped  right  into  a  chair  between 
the  two  purty  girls,  and  the  ould  chap  winked  at  me  and 
roared  again. 

Dennis  is  nic  father-in-law  now,  and  he  often  yet  delights 
to  tell  our  children  about  their  daddy's  adventure  wid  the 
owl. 


68  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


ALONZO  THE  BRAVE  AND  THE  FAIR 
IMOGINE.— M.  G.  Lewis. 

A  warrior  so  bold,  and  a  virgin  so  bright, 

Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green ; 
They  gazed  on  each  other  with  tender  delight: 
Alonzo  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight, 

The  maiden's,  the  Fair  Imogine. 

"And  oh ! "  said  the  youth,  "  since  to-morrow  I  go 

To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow. 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 

On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand ! " 

"  Oh !  hush  these  suspicions,"  Fair  Imogine  said, 

"  Offensive  to  love  and  to  me ; 
For,  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 
J.  swear  by  the  Virgin  tliat  none  in  your  stead 

Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 

"  If  e'er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside, 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and  pride, 
Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my  side, 
May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as  bride. 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave ! " 

To  Palestine  hastened  the  hero  so  bold, 

His  love  siie  lamented  him  sore ; 
But  scarce  had  a  twelvemonth  elapsed,  when,  behold  I 
A  baron,  all  covered  with  jewels  and  gold. 

Arrived  at  Fair  Imogine's  door. 

His  treasur3S,  his  presents,  his  spacious  domain, 

Sdou  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows; 
He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewildered  her  brain ; 
He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain, 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  blest  by  the  priest; 

The  revelry  now  was  begun  ; 
The  tables  they  groaned  with  the  weight  of  the  feast, 
Nor  yet  had  the  laughter  and  merriment  ceased. 

When  the  bell  at  the  castle  tolled — one. 

Then  first  with  amazement  Fair  Imogine  found 
A  stranger  was  placed  by  her  side : 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  G9 

His  air  was  terrific;  he  uttered  no  sound — ■ 
He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not  around, 
But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 

His  vizor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his  height, 

His  armor  was  sable  to  view ; 
All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hushed  at  his  sight; 
The  dogs,  as  they  eyed  him,  drew  back  in  affright; 

The  lights  in  the  chamber  burned  blue ! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appeared  to  dismay ; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear; 
At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she  trembled — "  I  pray 
Sir  knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you  would  lay, 

And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer." 

The  lady  is  silent;  the  stranger  complies — 

His  vizor  he  slowly  unchjsed ; 
Oh,  God    what  a  sight  met  Fair  Imogine's  eyes  I 
What  words  can  express  her  dismay  and  surprise 

When  a  skeleton's  head  was  exposed? 

All  present  then  uttered  a  terrified  shout, 

All  turned  with  disgust  from  the  scene ; 
The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms  they  crept  out, 
And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples  about, 

AVhile  the  spectre  addressed  Imogine : 

"  Behold  me,  thou  false  one,  behold  me ! "  he  cried, 

"Remember  Alonzo  the  Brave! 
God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood  and  pride. 
My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy  side ; 
Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee  as  bride, 

And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave ! " 

Thus  saying,  his  arms  round  the  lady  he  wound, 

While  loudly  she  shrieked  in  dismay; 
Then  sunk  with  his  prey  thro' the  wide-yawning  ground, 
Nor  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found, 

Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 

Not  long  lived  the  baron  ;  and  none,  since  that  time, 

To  inhabit  the  castle  {^resume; 
For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime. 
There  Imogine  sutlers  the  pain  of  her  crime. 

And  mourns  her  deplorable  doom. 

At  midnight,  four  timt-s  in  oacli  year,  does  her  sprite, 
When  mortals  in  slumber  are  bound, 


70  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Arrayed  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white, 
Appear  in  the  hall  with  the  skeleton  knight, 
And  shriek  as  he  whirls  her  around! 

While  they  drink  out  of  skulls  newly  torn  from  the  grave,^ 

Dancing  round  them  the  spectres  are  seen; 
Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible  stave 
They  howl:  "To  the  health  of  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Imogine ! " 


THINK  OF  ME  THEN. 

Think  of  me!— When?— 
Just  at  the  gentle  twiliglit  hour. 
When  the  dews  are  falling  on  tree  and  flower, 
When  birds  to  their  quiet  nests  Iiave  gone, 
And  the  summer  night  comes  softly  on : — 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me!— When?— 
As  thou  art  roving  through  pleasant  glades, 
Or  lingering  'mid  the  deep  forest's  shades, 
Gazing  on  flower  and  field  and  tree, 
Let  thy  thoughts  turn  for  a  while  to  me : — 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me!— Wlien?— 
As  some  sweet  strain  we  have  loved  to  hear, 
Comes  with  a  pathos  deei)  to  thine  ear, 
Or  a  soft  note  over  thy  senses  flung. 
Brings  back  the  time  when  that  lay  was  sung:^ 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me!— When?— 
At  the  early  hours  of  the  Sabbath  morn, 
AVhen  no  rude  sounds  on  the  breeze  are  borne, 
When  all  is  balmy  and  sweet  and  still, 
A.nd  the  mists  are  rising  from  stream  and  hill: — 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me!— When?— 
At  that  lone  hour,  when,  on  bended  knee, 
Thou  art  breathing  a  prayer  to  the  Deity, 
That  all  whom  thou  lovest  he  may  defend. 
Oh !  ask  some  boon  for  thy  distant  friend : — 

Think  of  me  then. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  71 


EDUCATION— Schuyler  Colfax. 

All  writers  on  education  agree  that  the  chief  means  of  in- 
tellectual improvement  are  five :  Observation,  Conversation, 
Keading,  Memory,  and  Reflection.  But  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  education  did  not  bring  out  the  last  two  into 
the  commanding  and  paramount  importance  they  deserve, 
sacrificing  them  to  a  wider  range  of  reading  and  of  studies. 
Knowledge  is  not  what  we  learn,  but  what  we  retain.  It  is 
not  what  i)eople  eat,  but  what  they  digest,  that  makes  them 
strong.  It  is  not  the  amount  of  money  they  handle,  but 
what  they  save,  that  makes  them  rich.  It  is  not  what  they 
read  or  study,  but  what  they  remember,  that  makes  them 
learned. 

And  Memory,  too,  is  one  of  those  wondrous  gifts  of  God 
to  man  that  should  be  assiduously  cultivated.  Much  of  your 
mental  acquisitions  will  form  a  secret  fund,  locked  up  even 
from  your  own  eyes  till  you  need  to  briug  it  into  use — a  mys- 
tery that  no  philosopher  has  yet  been  or  ever  will  be  able  to 
explain.  There  it  lies  hidden,  weeks,  months,  years,  and 
scores  of  years,  till,  mayluii)  a  half-century  afterward,  it 
bursts  when  needed,  at  Memory's  command,  upon  the  mind, 
like  a  hidden  spring  bubbling  up  at  the  very  hour  of  need 
in  the  pathway  of  the  thirsty  traveler. 

AVhile  I  have  counseled  self-reliance,  and  would  go  further 
and  urge  you  to  labor  to  deserve  the  good  opinion  of  your 
fellow-men,  I  do  not  counsel  that  longing  for  fame  which  is 
so  much  more  largely  developed  under  our  free  republic  than 
in  any  other  realm  upon  the  globe.  Lord  Mansfield  once 
uttered  as  advice,  what  history  teaches  us  he  should  have 
declared  as  an  axiom,  that  that  jjopularity  is  alone  valuable 
and  enduring  which  follows  you,  not  that  which  you  run 
after.     It  was  Sumner  Lincoln  Fairfield  who  wrote — 

"  Fame  1  'tis  the  madness  of  contending  thought. 
Toiling  in  tears,  .iK]iiriii}c  in  (lcH|i,iir; 
Whirli  Hteals  like  Liivc'k  (Icliriiiiii  o'er  tlio  orain, 
And,  while  it  Ijiiries  eliildliniiirH  purest  juys, 
Wakert  niaiihooirs  dreary  nguiiieK  int<j  life." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  counsel  longings  for  such  a  fume  a& 


72'  ONE    UUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

this.  "  Toiling  in  tears,  aspiring  in  despair,"  is  but  a  poor 
preparation  for  the  enjoyment  of  popular  honors  or  the  per- 
formance of  public  trusts.  And  there  is  an  exceedingly  bet- 
ter way.  It  is  to  climb,  young  men,  with  buoyant  heart,  the 
hill  of  knowledge.  It  is  to  boldly  scale  the  Alps  and  Apen- 
nines which  ever  rear  themselves  in  your  pathway.  It  is  to 
feel  your  sinews  strengthen,  as  they  will,  with  every  obstacle 
you  surmount.  It  is  to  build  yourself, — developing  mental 
strength,  untiring  energy,  sleepless  zeal,  fervent  patriotism, 
and  earnest  principle, — until  the  public  shall  feel  that  you 
arc  the  man  they  need,  and  that  they  must  command  you 
i7ito  the  public  service. 

And  if  perchance  that  call  should  not  happen  to  come, 
and  you  should  be  forced  to  remain  an  American  sovereign 
instead  of  becoming  a  public  servcnd,  you  shall  have  your  re- 
ward in  the  rich  stores  of  knowledge  you  have  thus  col- 
lected, and  which  shall  ever  be  at  your  command.  More 
valuable  than  earthly  treasure, — while  fleets  may  sink,  and 
storehouses  consume,  and  banks  may  totter,  and  riches  flee, 
the  intellectual  investments  you  have  thus  made  will  be 
permanent  and  enduring,  unfailing  as  the  constant  flow  of 
Niagara  or  Amazon — a  bank  whose  dividends  are  perjjetual, 
whose  wealth  is  undiminished  however  frequent  the  drafts 
upon  it;  which,  though  moth  may  impair,  yet  thieves  cannot 
break  tkrough  nor  steal. 

Nor  will  you  be  able  to  fill  these  storehouses  to  their  full. 
Pour  into  a  glass  a  stream  of  water,  and  at  last  it  fills  to  the 
brim  and  will  not  hold  another  drop.  But  you  may  pour 
into  your  mind,  through  a  whole  lifetime,  streams  of  know- 
ledge.from  every  conceivable  quarter,  and  not  only  shall 
it  never  be  full,  but  it  will  constantly  thirst  for  more,  and 
welcome  each  fresh  supply  with  a  greater  joy. 

Nay,  more,  to  all  around  you  may  impart  of  these  glad- 
dening streams  which  have  so  fertilized  your  own  mind,  and 
yet,  like  the  candle  from  which  a  thousand  other  candles 
may  be  lit.Avithout  diminishing  its  flame,  your  supply  shall 
not  be  impaired.  On  the  contrary,  your  knowledge,  as  you 
add  to  it,  will  itself  attract  still  more  as  it  widens  your  realm 
of  thought ;  and  thus  will  you  realize  in  your  own  life  the  par- 
able of  the  Ten  Talents,  for  "  to  him  that  hath  shall  be  given." 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  73 


JOE    JONES— A   P^VTvODY. 

Don't  you  remember  lame  Sally,  Joe  Jones — 

Lame  Sally,  whose  nose  was  so  brown? 
"Who  looked  like  a  clam  if  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  went  into  fits  at  your  frown? 
In  the  old  goose-pond  in  the  orchard,  Joe  Jones, 

Where  the  goslings  are  learning  to  swim, 
Lame  Sally  went  fishing  one  wet,  windy  day, 

And  there  by  mistake  tumbled  in. 

Under  old  Sim's  brush  fence,  Joe  Jones, 

That  winds  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  we've  seen  the  old  camel  go  round, 

Grinding  cider  at  Appleton's  mill ; 
The  mill-wheel  is  oven-wood  now,  Joe  Jones, 

Tlie  rafters  fell  on  to  a  cow. 
And  the  weasels  and  rats  that  crawl  round  as  you  gaze, 

Are  the  lords  of  the  cider-mill  now. 

Do  you  remember  the  pig-pen  of  logs,  Joe  Jones, 

Which  stood  on  the  path  to  the  barn? 
And  the  shirt  button  trees,  where  they  grew  on  the  boughs, 

Which  we  sewed  on  our  jackets  with  yarn? 
The  pig-pen  has  gone  to  decay,,  Joe  Jones, 

And  the  lightning  the  tree  overcome; 
And  down  where  the  onions  and  carrots  once  grew. 

Grow  thistles  as  big  as  your  thumb. 

Don't  you  remember  the  school,  Joe  Jones? 

And' the  master  who  wore  the  old  wig? 
And  the  nice  shady  nook  by  the  crook  of  the  brook, 

Where  we  played  with  Aunt  Catharine's  pig? 
]Mi<-e  live  in  the  master's  wig,  Joe  Jones, 

Tlie  l)r(j()k  with  tlie  crook  is  now  dry. 
And  the  boys  and  the  girls  that  were  playmates  then, 

Have  grown  up  ever  so  high. 

There's  a  change  in  the  things  T  love,  Joe  Jones, 

Thev  liav(!  clianged  from  tlie  good  to  the  bad — 
And  Ifeel  in  my  stomach,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 

I'd  like  to  go  lionu!  to  my  dad. 
Twelve  times  twelve  months  have  passed,  Joe  Jones, 

Sini-e  I  knocked  off  yonr  nose  with  a  rail; 
Aud  yet  I  believe  I'm  yotu-  own  tnu;  friend, 

Joe  Jones  of  the  llin-riiane  (jale! 

62 


74  ONE    IIUNDKED    CnOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  VOICES  AT  THE  THRONE.— T.  Westwood. 

A  little  child, 

A  little  meek-faced,  quiet  village  child, 

Sat  singing  by  her  cottage  door  at  eve 

A  low,  sweet  Sabbath  song.    No  human  ear 

Caught  the  faint  melody, — no  human  eye 

Beheld  the  upturned  aspect,  or  the  smile 

That  wreathed  her  innocent  lips  while  they  breathed 

The  oft-repeated  burden  of  the  hymn, 

"  Praise  God  I  Praise  God  I " 

A  seraph  by  the  throne 
In  full  glory  stood.    With  eager  hand 
He  smote  the  golden  harp-string,  till  a  flood 
Of  harmony  on  the  celestial  air 
Welled  forth,  unceasing.    There,  with  a  great  voice 
He  sang  the  "  Holy,  holy  evermore. 
Lord  God  Almighty ! "  and  the  eternal  courts 
Thrilled  with  the  rapture,  and  the  hierarchies. 
Angel,  and  rapt  archangel,  throbbed  and  burned 
With  vehement  adoration. 

Higher  yet 
Rose  the  majestic  anthem,  without  pause, 
Higher,  with  rich  magnihcence  of  sound, 
To  its  full  strength ;  and  still  the  intinite  heavens 
Rang  with  the  "Holy,  holy  evermore!" 
Till,  trembling  with  excessive  awe  and  love, 
Each  sceptred  sjiirit  sank  before  the  throne 
With  a  mute  hallelujah. 

But  even  then, 

While  the  ecstatic  song  was  at  its  height, 
Stole  in  an  alien  voice — a  voice  that  seemed 
To  float,  float  upward  from  some  world  afar — 
A  meek  and  childlike  voice,  taint,  but  how  sweet,? 
That  blended  with  the  spirits'  rushing  strain, 
Even  as  a  fountain's  music  with  the  roll 
Of  the  reverberate  thunder. 

•  Loving  smiles 
Lit  up  the  beauty  of  each  angel's  face 
At  that  new  utterance,  smiles  of  joy  that  grew 
More  joyous  yet,  as  ever  and  anon 
Was  heard  the  simple  burden  of  the  hymn, 
"Praise  God!  praise  God!" 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  :<-> 

And  when  the  serai)h's  sont; 
Had  reached  its  close,  and  o'er  the  golden  lyre 
Silence  hunsc  brooding, — -vvhen  the  eternal  courts 
Rang  with  the  echoes  of  his  chant  sublime. 
Still  through  the  abysmal  space  that  wandering  voice 
Came  floating  upward  from  its  world  afar, 
Still  murmiirud  sweet  on  the  celestial  air, 
"Praise  God!  Praise  God!" 


HAVE  CHARITY. 

If  we  know  the  cares  and  crosses, 

Crowded  round  our  neighbor's  way; 
If  we  knew  the  little  losses. 

Sorely  grievous  day  by  day. 
Would  we  then  so  often  chide  him 

For  the  lack  of  thrift  and  gain, 
Leaving  on  his  heart  a  shadow. 

Leaving  on  our  lives  a  stain? 

If  we  knew  the  clouds  above  us 

Held  by  gentle  blessing  there,_ 
Would  we  turn  away,  all  trembling, 

In  our  blind  and  weak  desjiair? 
Would  we  shrink  from  little  shadows, 

Lying  on  the  dewy  grass, 
While  'tis  only  birds  of  Eden 

Just  in  mercy  flitting  past? 

If  we  knew  the  silent  story 

Quivering  through  the  heart  of  pain 
"Would  our  manhood  dare  to  doom  it 

Back  to  haunts  of  vice  and  shame? 
Life  is  many  a  tangled  crossing, 

Joy  has  many  a  break  of  woe. 
And  the  cheeks  tear-washed  are  whitest. 

And  the  blessed  angels  know. 

Let  us  reach  within  our  bosoms 

For  tlie  key  to  other  lives, 
And  with  love  to  erring  nature, 

Cherish  good  that  slill  survives; 
So  that  when  our  disrobed  s])irits 
•    Soar  to  realms  of  light  again. 
We  in.iy  say,  "  Dear  I^ilhcr!  judge  us 

As  we  judged  our  fcUow-meu." 


0>fK    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


HOW  JAMIE  CAME  HOME.—Will  M.  Carleton. 

Come,  mother,  set  the  kettle  on, 
And  put  the  ham  and  eggs  to  fry ; 
Something  to  eat, 
And  make  it  neat. 
To  please  our  Jamie's  mouth  and  eye ; 

For  Jamie  is  oiu-  all,  you  know. 

The  rest  have  perished  long  ago ! 

He's  coming  from  the  wars  to-night, 

And  his  blue  eyes  will  sparkle  bright, 

And  his  old  smile  will  play  right  free, 

His  old,  loved  home,  again  to  see. 

I  say  for  't !  'twas  a  cur'us  thing  ^ 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  killed: 

Five  were  the  years. 

With  hopes  and  fears. 
And  gloomy,  hopeless  tidings  filled ; 
And  many  a  night,  the  past  five  year, 
We've  lain  within  our  cottage  here, 
And  while  the  rain-storm  came  and  went,      - 
We've  thought  of  Jamie,  in  his  tent ; 
And  offered  many  a  silent  prayer 
That  God  would  keep  him  in  His  care. 

I  sav  for  't!  'twas  a  cur'us  thing 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  kdledl 
Five  were  the  years. 
With  blood  and  tears. 
With  cruel,  bloody  battles  filled; 
And  many  a  morn,  the  past  five  year. 
We've  knelt  around  our  fireside  here. 
And  while  we  thought  of  bleeding  ones. 
Our  blazing  towns  and  smoking  guns. 
We've  thousht  of  him  and  breathed  a  prayer 
That  God  would  keep  him  in  His  care. 

Nay,  Addie,  girl,  just  come  away. 
Touch  not  a  dish  upon  the  shtjlt! 
Mother  well  knows 
Just  how  it  goes. 
Mother  shall  set  it  all  herself! 

There's  nothing  to  a  wanderer's  looks, 

Equal  to  food  that  mother  cooks; 

There's  nothing  to  a  wanderer's  taste. 

Like  food  where  mother's  hand  is  traced; 

Though  good  a  sister's  heart  and  wdl, 

A  mo'ther's  love  is  better  still. 


NUMBER    SEVEN. 

She  knows  the  side  to  put  his  plate^ 
Slie  knows  the  place  to  put  his  chair. 
]\huiy  a  day, 
With  spirits  gay, 
He's  talked,  and  laughed,  and  eaten  there; 

And  though  tive  years  have  come  and  gone. 

Our  hearts  for  him  beat  truly  on, 

And  keep  a  plate  for  him  to-day. 

As  well  as  ere  he  went  away; 

And  he  shall  take,  as  good  as  new, 

His  old  x)lace  at  the  table,  too! 

And  opposite  to  him,  again. 

Your  place,  my  Addie,  girl,  shall  be; 
Mother,  your  place, 
And  kind  old  face, 
I'll  still  have  opposite  to  me ; 

And  we  will  talk  of  olden  days. 

Of  all  our  former  words  and  ways. 

And  we  will  tell  him  what  has  passed. 

Since  he,  dear  boy,  was  with  us  last ; 

And  how  our  eyes  have  fast  grown  dim. 

Whenever  we  conversed  of  him. 

And  he  shall  tell  us  of  his  fights, 
His  marches,  skirmishes,  and  all; 
Many  a  tale 
Will  make  us  pale. 
And  pity  those  who  had  to  fall ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  sportive  style, 
AVill  go,  perhaps,  to  make  us  smile ; 
And  when  his  stories  are  all  done. 
And  when  the  evening  well  has  gone, 
We'll  kneel  around  the  hearth  once  more, 
And  thank  the  Lord  the  war  is  o'er. 

Hark !— there's  a  sound!  he's  coming  now! 

Hark,  mother!  there's  the  sound  once  more! 
Now  on  our  feet. 
With  smiles  to  greet. 

We'll  meet  him  at  the  oi)ening  door! 
It  is  a  heavy  step  and  tone, 
Too  heavy,  far,  f<tr  one  alone; 
Perliajts  the  company  extends 
To  some  of  his  old  army  friends; 
And  who  they  1k',  and  whence  they  came. 
Of  course  we'll  welcome  them  all  the  same. 

What  bear  ye  on  your  shoulders,  men? 
Is  it  my  Jamie,  stark  and  dead? 

uu 


iij  ONE    HUM>KED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

What  did  you  say? 

Once  more,  I  pray, 
I  did  not  gather  what  you  said. 
What!  drunk f  you  tell  that  lie  to  me? 
What !  DRUNK !  Oh,  God,  it  cannot  be  I 
It  cannot  be  my  Jamie  dear, 
Ljdng  in  drunken  silumbers  here ! 
It  is,  it  is,  as  you  have  said ! 
Men,  lay  him  on  yon  waiting  bed. 

Tis  Jamie,  yes!  a  bearded  man, 
Though  bearing  still  some  boyhood's  trace; 
Stained  with  the  ways 
Of  reckless  days — 
Flushed  with  the  wine  cup  in  his  face, 
Swelled  with  the  fruits  of  reckless  years, 
Robbed  of  each  trait  that  e'er  endears. 
Except  the  heart-distressing  one, 
That  Jamie  is  our  only  son. 

Oh !  mother,  take  the  kettle  off, 
And  put  the  ham  and  eggs  away! 
What  was  my  crime. 
And  when  the  time, 
That  I  should  live  to  see  this  day^ 
For  all  the  sighs  I  ever  drew, 
And  all  the  griefs  I  ever  knew, 
And  all  the  cares  that  creased  my  brow. 
Were  naught  to  what  comes  o'er  me  now. 

I  would  to  God  that  when  the  three 
We  lost  were  hidden  from  our  view, 
Jamie  had  died, 
And  by  their  side" 
Had  laid,  all  pure  and  spotless,  too ! 
I  would  this  rain  might  fall  above 
The  grave  of  him  we  joyed  to  love. 
Rather  than  hear  its  coming  traced 
Upon  the  roof  he  has  disgraced ! 
But  mother,  Addie,  come  this  way, 
And  let  us  kneel,  and  humbly  pray. 


A  VISIT  TO  THOMFKINSVILLE  UNIVERSITY. 

I  had  lately  the  pleasure  of  making  a  visit  to  the  world- 
renowned  University  of  Thompkinsville,  and,  as  I  am  led  to 
believe  that  the  details  of  my  trip  may  not  prove  altogether 


KUMBER   SEVEN.  70 

uninteresting  to  yonr  readers,  I  bog  to  submit  them  to  your 
notice.  I  must  first  premise  that  the  occasion  of  my  vi;4t 
was  an  invitation  to  lecftire  on  the  Impenetrability  of  Ulti- 
mate Atomic  Particles,  and  I  was  prepared  to  meet  with  a 
cordial  reception,  in  which  I  was  not  disappointed. 

I  left  this  place  on  the  evening  of  the  ad  of  May,  and,  after 
a  rather  tedious  journey,  arrived  at  Thompkinsville  on  the 
morning  of  the  5th.  I  was  met  at  the  depot  by  a  deputation 
appointed  to  receive  me,  which  came  provided  with  a  wheel- 
barrow, whereon  they  conveyed  me  triumphantly  to  the 
college,  passing  through  the  thriving  city  of  Thompkinsville 
amid  the  enthusiastic  cheers  of  the  populace.  We  were  ac- 
companied on  our  march  by  the  Thompkinsville  Brass  Band, 
which  performed  several  pieces  of  music  exceedingly  well ; 
the  names  of  the  performers  on  the  principal  instruments 
were  as  follows : 

Drum,  (three  inches  in  diameter)  Herr  Donnerundblitzen ; 
tin  trumpet,  Herr  AVindischgratz;  penny  whistle,  Signor 
Flauto  Magico ;  contralto,  Signor  Jack  Robinson ;  jewsharp, 
Monsieur  Clavecin. 

"We  went  first  to  the  rooms  of  the  Professor  of  Ethnology ; 
and  it  was  fortunate  for  him  that  we  did  so,  for  we  were  but 
just  in  time  to  save  his  life.  It  appears  that  he  had  been 
reading  the  seventy-third  volume  of  my  work  on  the  origin 
of  the  Seljukian  Turks,  (which  I  wrote  in  Arabic  at  the  re- 
quest of  the  Sultan  Abdul-Medjid)  and,  in  attempting  to 
pronounce  a  word  of  sixteen  syllables,  he  had  been  choked 
by  a  combination  of  consonants,  and  was  just  turning  black 
in  the  face  as  we  entered.  We  ai)]»Ued  the  usual  restoratives, 
and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  begin  to  recover, 
fie  was,  however,  too  much  exhausted  to  engage  in  conver- 
sation, and  so,  leaving  him  in  the  care  of  that  eminent  phy- 
sicdan.  Dr.  Hippocrates  Squat,  we  proceeded  to  the  rooms  of 
the  Professor  of  Astronomy. 

Finding  this  gentleman  too  much  engrossed  by  the  ab- 
S')rljing  cares  of  his  station  to  attend  to  anything  else,  we 
bade  him  good-morning,  and  went  next  to  visit  the  Professor 
of  ^Mathematics,  Signor  Figurante,  an  Italian  by  birth,  and  a 
Vf*rv  ••lever  man  indeed. 

"A'e  found  him  engaged  in  extracting  vhc  fifly-lirili  root  of 


80  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

a  polynomial  of  several  thousand  terms.  He  did  not  seem, 
however,  at  all  annoyed  at  our  interruption  of  his  labors,  but 
received  us  with  the  utmost  courtesy.  After  some  time  spent 
in  interesting  and  instructive  conversation,  I  asked  him  what 
he  considered  to  be  the  best  definition  of  an  obtuse  angle. 
He  replied  that  it  signified  a  man  remarkable  for  the  dull' 
ness  of  his  reasoning  faculties, — whereupon  I  immediately 
took  my  departure. 

I  had  intended  next  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Professor  of  Bot- 
any, for  whom  I  had  brought  a  specimen  of  Solanum  tubero- 
sum, a  rare  plant  found  in  the  vicinity  of  this  city,  but,  to  my 
regret,  he  was  not  at  home.  I  therefore  proceeded,  still  in 
company  with  the  president  of  the  institution,  to  the  room 
of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Polyglot  Lexiconivorus  Briggs,  Pro- 
fessor of  Syro-Chaldaic,  Coptic,  Sanscrit,  Armenian,  etc., 
etc.,  whom  we  found  talking  Hebrew  to  one  of  his  friends, 
and  endeavoring  to  prove  to  him  that  the  site  of  the  tower 
of  Babel  was  in  the  middle  of  the  Red  Sea.  He  offered  me 
a  cigar,  which  I  imprudently  accepted — imprudently,  I  say, 
because  after  lighting  it  I  happened  to  drop  the  match  upon 
the  train  of  arguments  which  the  professor  had  just  adduced. 
As  might  have  been  expected,  an  explosion  immediately 
took  place,  and  I  thought  myself  happy  to  escape  with 
slight  injuries  to  my  boots;  my  companion,  the  president, 
was  not  so  fortunate,  as  the  calf  of  his  leg  was  blown  com- 
pletely off".  What  became  of  Professor  Poh'glot  Lexiconi- 
vorus Briggs  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain ;  but  I  should 
judge  that  his  fate  was  horrible  in  the  extreme,  from  the 
quantity  of  adjectives,  prepositions,  demonstrative  pronouns, 
and  other  parts  of  speech  belonging  to  various  Oriental  lan- 
guages, which  were  afterward  picked  up  in  the  courtyard 
under  his  windows. 

You  may  suppose  that  I  had  no  desire  to  remain  any 
longer  in  a  place  whose  atmosphere  was  so  very  combustible. 
I  fled  precipitately  to  the  depot,  and  finding  a  train  about 
to  start,  I  jumped  in,  and  bade  farewell  to  Thompkinsville 
forever. 


KUMBER   SEVEN. 


THE  GLADIATOR— J.  A.  Jones. 


They  led  a  lion  from  his  den, 

The  lord  of  Afric-'s  sun-si-orehed  plain ; 

And  there  he  stood,  stern  foe  of  men, 
And  shook  his  flowina;  mane. 

There's  not  of  all  Rome's  heroes,  ten 
That  dare  ahide  this  game. 

His  hriglit  eye  nonght  of  lightning  lacked; 

His  vok'e  was  like  the  cataract. 

They  brought  a  dark-haired  man  along, 

AVhose  limbs  with  gyves  of  brass  were  bound; 

Youthful  he  seemed,  and  bold,  and  strong, 
And  yet  unscathed  of  wound. 

Blithely  he  stepped  among  the  throng, 
And  careless  threw  around 

A  dark  eye,  such  as  courts  the'path    ^ 

Of  him  who  braves  a  Dacian's  wrath. 

Then  shouted  the  plebeian  crowd, — 
Rung  the  glad  galleries  with  tlie  sound; 

And  from  the  throne  there  spake  aloud 
A  voice, — "Be  the  bold  man  unbound! 

And,  by  Rome's  sceptre,  yet  unbowed. 
By  Ilome,  earth's  monarch  crowned, 

Who  dares  the  bold,  the  unequal  strife. 

Though  doomed  to  death,  shall  save  his  life." 

Joy  was  upon  that  dark  man's  face ; 

And  thus,  with  laughing  eye,  spak<}  he: 
"Loose  ye  the  lord  of  Zaara's  waste. 

And  let  my  arms  be  free : 
'He  has  a  martial  heart,'  thou  sayest;--' 

But  oh !  who  will  not  be 
A  hero,  when  he  tights  for  life, 
For  home  and  coiuitry,  babes  and  wif»? 

"And  thus  I  for  the  strife  prepare: 
The  Thracian  falchion  to  me  bring, 

But  ask  til'  imperial  leave  to  spare 
The  shield, — a  useless  thing. 

Were  I  a  Samnite's  rage  to  dare, 
Then  o'er  me  woul(i  I  fling 

The  broad  orb;  hut  to  lion's  wraili 

The  shield  were  but  a  sword  of  lath." 

52* 


ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  he  has  bared  his  shhiiiiji  blade, 
And  springs  he  on  the  shaggy  foe; 

Dreadful  the  strife,  but  briefly  played;— 
The  desert-king  lies  low : 

His  long  and  loud  death-howl  is  made ; 
And  there  must  end  the  show. 

And  when  the  multitude  were  calm. 

The  favorite  freed  man  took  the  palm. 

"Kneel  down,  Rome's  emperor  beside?" 

He  knelt,  that  dark  man ;— o'er  his  brow- 
Was  thrown  a  wreath  in  crimson  dj^ed; 

And  fair  words  gild  it  now : 
"  Thou  art  the  bravest  youth  that  ever  tried 

To  lay  a  lion  low ;  ^ 

And  from  our  presence  forth  thou  go  st 
To  lead  the  Dacians  of  our  host." 

Then  flushed  his  cheek,  but  not  with  pride 
And  grieved  and  gloomily  spake  he : 

"  My  cabin  stands  where  blithely  glide 
Proud  Danube's  waters  to  the  sea: 

I  have  a  young  and  blooming  bride, 
And  I  have  children  three:—  _ 

No  Roman  wealth  or  rank  can  give 

Such  joy  as  in  their  arms  to  live. 

"  My  wife  sits  at  the  cabin  door. 

With  throbbing  heart  and  swollen  eyes, — 
.  While  tears  her  cheek  are  coursing  o'er, 

She  speaks  of  sundered  ties ; 
She  bids  my  tender  babes  deplore 

The  death  their  flither  dies ; 
She  tells  these  jewels  of  my  home, 
I  bleed  to  please  the  rout  of  Rome, 

"I  cannot  let  those  chernbs  stray 
Without  their  sire's  protecting  care; 

And  I  would  chase  the  griefs  away 
Which  cloud  my  wedded  fair." 

The  monarch  spoke;  the  guards  obey; 
And  gates  unclosed  are : 

He's  gone !— No  golden  bribes  divide 

The  Daciau  from  his  babes  and  bride. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  83 


LITTLE  MARY'S  WISH.— Mrs.  L.  M.  Blinn. 

"  I  have  seen  the  first  robin  of  spring,  mother  dear, 

And  have  heard  the  brown  darlinj;  sing ; 
You  said, '  Hear  it  and  wisli,  and  'twill  surely  come  t-rue;' 

So  I've  wished  such  a  beautiful  thing! 

"  I  thought  I  would  like  to  ask  something  for  yoii, 

But  I  couldn't  think  what  there  could  be 
That  you'd  want  Avhile  you  had  all  these  beautiful  things; 

Besides,  you  have  papa  and  me. 

"  So  I  wished  for  a  ladder,  so  long  that  'twould  stand 

One  end  by  our  own  cottage  door, 
And  the  other  go  up  past  the  moon  and  the  stars 

And  lean  against  heaven's  white  lloor. 

"  Then  I'd  get  you  to  put  on  my  pretty  white  dress, 
With  my  sash  and  my  darling  new  shoes; 

Then  I'd  find  some  white  roses  to  take  up  to  God — 
The  most  beautiful  ones  I  could  choose. 

"And  you  and  dear  papa  would  sit  on  the  ground 

And'  kLss  me,  and  tell  me  '  Good-bye! ' 
Then  I'd  go  up  the  ladder  far  out  of  your  sight, 

Till  I  came  to  the  door  in  the  sky. 

"I  wonder  if  God  keeps  the  door  fastened  tight? 

If  but  one  little  crack  I  could  see, 
I  would  whisper, '  Please,  God,  let  this  little  girl  in, 

She's  aa  tired  as  she  can  be ! 

" '  She  came  all  alone  from  the  earth  to  the  sky. 

For  she's  alwf.ys  been  wanting  to  see 
The  gardens  of  heaven,  with  their  robins  and  flowers; 

Please,  God,  is  there  room  there  for  me?' 

"And  then,  when  the  angels  had  opened  the  door, 
God  would  sav,  'Bring  the  little  child  here,' 

But  he'd  speak  it  so  softly  I'd  not  be  afraid; 
And  he'd  smile  just  like  you,  mother  dear. 

"Hc!  would  put  His  kind  arms  round  your  dear  little  girl, 

And  I'd  ask  Him  to  stuid  down  for  you, 
And  papa,  and  cousin,  and  all  that  I  love — 

Oh  dear!  don't  you  wi.di  'twould  come  true?" 


84  ONE    HUNDKEO    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  next  spring  time,  when  the  robins  came  home. 

They  sang  over  grasses  and  tiowers 
That  grew  where  the  foot  of  the  ladder  stood, 

Whose  top  reached  the  heavenly  bowers. 

And  the  parents  had  dressed  the  pale,  still  child, 

For  her  flight  to  the  summer  land, 
In  a  fair  white  robe,  with  one  snow  white  rose 

Folded  tight  in  her  pulseless  hand. 

And  now  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  they  sit, 

Looking  upward  with  quiet  tears. 
Till  the  beckoning  hand  and  the  fluttering  robe 

Of  the  child  at  the  top  api>eiU-s. 

Our  Young  Folks. 


POST  NUMMOS  VIRTUS.— Archbishop  Spaulding. 

Avarice  is  the  besetting  sin  of  the  age.  Ours  is,  emphat- 
ically, the  enlightened  age  of  dollars  and  ceiUs/  Its  motto 
is:  Post  nmnmos  virtus, — money  first,  virtue  afterward! 
Utilitarianism  is  the  order  of  the  day.  Everything  is  esti- 
mated in  dollars  and  cents.  Almost  every  order  and  profes- 
sion— our  literature,  our  arts,  and  our  sciences — all  worship 
in  the  temple  of  Mammon. 

The  temple  of  God  is  open  during  only  one  day  in  the 
week;  that  of  Mammon  is  open  dming  six.  Everything 
smacks  of  gold.  The  fever"  of  avarice  is  consuming  the  very 
heart's  blood  of  our  people.  Hence  that  restless  desire  to 
grow  suddenly  rich ;  hence  that  feverish  agitation  of  our  pop- 
ulation ;  hence  broken  constitutions  and  premature  old  age. 
If  we  have  not  discovered  the  philosopher's  stone,  it  has 
surely  not  been  for  want  of  the  seeking.  If  everything  can- 
not now  be  turned  into  gold,  it  is  certainly  not  for  want  of 
unceasing  exertions  for  this  purpose. 

We  have  even  heard  of  churches  having  been  built  on 
speculation !  And  if  the  traveler  from  some  distant  clime 
should  chance  suddenly  to  enter  one  of  our  fashionable  meet- 
ing-hoases,  if  he  should  look  at  its  splendidly-cushioned 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  85 

seats,  on  which  people  are  seen  comfortably  lolling,  and  then 
glance  at  the  naked  walls,  and  the  utter  barrenness  of  all  re- 
ligious emblems  and  associations  in  the  interior  of  the  build- 
ing, he  would  almost  conclude  that  he  had  entered,  by  mis- 
take, into  some  finely  furnished  lecture-room,  where  the 
ordinary  topics  of  the  day  were  to  be  discussed. 

And  if  he  were  informed  that  this  edifice  had  been  erected 
and  furnished  by  a  joint-stock  company  on  shares,  and  that 
these  shrewd  speculators  looked  confidently  to  the  income 
fr(jm  the  rent  of  the  seats  as  a  return  for  their  investment, 
his  original  impression  would  certainly  not  be  weakened. 
But  the  conclusion  would  be  irresistible  if  he  were  told  still 
farther  that,  in  order  to  secure  a  good  attendance  of  the  rich 
and  fashionable,  the  owners  of  the  stock  had  taken  the  pru- 
dent precaution  to  engage,  at  a  high  salary,  some  popular 
and  eminent  preacher!  Those  who  have  watched  closely 
the  signs  of  the  times  will  admit  that  this  is  not  a  mere 
fancy  sketch,  and  that  it  is  not  even  exaggerated. 

Alas!  alas!  for  the  utilitarianism,  or  rather  materialism, 
of  our  boasted  age  of  enlightenment !  In  such  a  condition 
of  things  can  we  wonder  at  the  general  prevalence  of  relig- 
ious indifference  and  of  unblushing  infidelity?  As  in  the 
days  of  Horace,  our  children  are  taught  to  calculate,  but  not 
to  pray.    They  learn  arithmetic,  but  not  religion. 

The  mischievous  maxim,  that  children  must  grow  up  with- 
out any  distinctive  religious  impressions,  and  then,  when 
they  have  attained  the  age  of  discretion,  must  choose  a  re- 
ligion for  themselves,  is  frightfully  prevalent  amongst  us. 
This  maxim  is  about  as  wise  as  would  be  that  of  the  agricul- 
turist who  should  resolve  to  permit  his  fields  to  lie  neglected 
in  the  spring  season,  and  to  become  overgrown  with  weeds 
and  briers,  under  the  pretext  that,  when  summer  would  come, 
it  would  be  time  enough  to  scatter  over  them  the  good  seed! 
It  amounts  to  this:  human  nature  is  corrupt  and  downward 
in  its  tendency;  let  it  fester  in  its  corruption  and  bec<jme 
confirmed  in  its  rottenness,  and  then  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  apply  the  remedy,  or  rather,  human  nature  will  then  re- 
act and  heal  itself. 


uu* 


80  ONE     UUNDUED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


A  TRIUMPH  OF  ORDER— John  Hay. 

Thfi  following  poem  is  founded  on  the  same  incident  as  Victor  nugo's"Suruno 
Ilarrioide." 

A  squad  of  regular  infantry, 

In  the  Coniniune's  closing  days, 
Had  captured  a  crowd  of  rebels 

By  the  wall  of  Pere-la-Chaise. 

There  were  desperate  men,  wild  women, 

And  dark-eyed  Amazon  girls, 
And  one  little  boy,  with  a  peach-down  cheek 

And  yellow  clustering  curls. 

The  captain  seized  the  little  waif. 
And  said,  "What  dost  thou  here?" 
■    "Saprlsti,  citizen  captain! 

I'm  a  Communist,  my  dear!" 

"Very  well.    Then  you  die  with  the  others!" 

"  Very  well.    That's  my  affair. 
But  first  let  me  take  to  my  mother. 

Who  lives  by  the  wine-shop  there, 

"  My  father's  watch.    You  see  it ; 

A  gay  old  thing  is  it  not? 
It  would  i)lease  the  old  lady  to  have  it, 

Then  I'll  come  back  here  and  be  shot." 

"  That  is  the  last  we  shall  see  of  him," 

The  grizzled  captain  grinned. 
As  the  little  man  skimmed  down  the  hill 

Like  a  swallow  down  the  wind. 

For  the  joy  of  killing  had  lost  its  zest 

In  the  glut  of  those  awful  days. 
And  Death  writhed,  gorged  like  a  greedy  snake, 

From  the  Arch  to  Pere-la-Chaise. 

But  before  the  last  platoon  had  fired, 

The  child's  shrill  voice  was  heard — ' 

"Houp-la  !  the  old  girl  made  such  a  row 
I  feared  I  should  break  my  word!" 

Against  the  bullet-pitted  wall 

He  took  his  place  with  the  rest; 
A  button  was  lost  from  his  ragged  blouse. 

Which  showed  his  soft,  white  breast. 

"  Now  blaze  away,  my  children. 

With  your  little  one — two — three ! " 

The  Chassepots  tore  the  stout  young  heart. 
And  saved  society. 


K  U  M  B  E  R    S  E  V  E  N.  87 


PEESEVEE-E.— John  BuouonAM. 

Robert,  the  Bruce,  in  his  dungeon  stood, 

Waiting  the  hour  of  doom; 
Behind  him  tlie  palace  of  Holyrood, 

Before  him — a  nameless  tomb. 
And  the  foam  on  his  Up  was  flecked  with  red, 
As  away  to  the  past  his  memory  sped, 
Upcalling  the  day  of  his  past  renown, 
When  he  won,  and  he  wore,  the  Scottish  crown : 
Yet  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine. 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  I  have  sat  on  the  royal  seat  of  Scone," 

He  muttered  below  his  breath; 
"It's  a  luckless  change,  from  a  kingly  throne 

To  a  felon's  shameful  death." 
And  he  clenched  his  hands  in  his  mad  despair. 
And  he  struck  at  the  shapes  that  were  gathering  there. 
Pacing  his  cell  in  impatient  rage, 
As  a  new-caught  lion  paces  his  cage:     . 

But  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine, 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  Oh !  were  it  my  fate  to  yield  up  life 

At  the  head  of  my  liegemen  all, 
In  the  foremost  shock  of  the  battle-strife 

Breaking  my  country's  thrall, 
I'd  welcome  death  from  the  foeman's  steel. 
Breathing  a  prayer  for  old  Scotland's  weal; 
But  here,  where  no  pitying  heart  is  nigh, 
By  a  loathly  hand  it  is  hard  to  die : " 

Yet  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine, 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"  Time  and  again  I  have  fronted  the  tide 

(Jf  the  tyrant's  vast  array. 
But  only  to  see  on  the  crimson  tide 

My  hopes  swept  far  away; — 
Now  a  landhiss  chief  and  a  crownless  king, 
On  the  broad,  broad  earth  not  a  living  thing 
To  keej)  me  court,  save  this  insect  small. 
Striving  to  reach  from  wall  to  wall:" 

For  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine, 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

"Work!  work  like  a  fool,  to  the  certain  loss, 
Like  myself,  of  your  time  and  pain; 


y8  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  space  is  too  wide  to  be  bridged  across. 

You  but  waste  your  strength  iu  vain  I " 
And  Bruce  for  the  moment  forgot  his  grief. 
His  soul  now  filled  with  the  sure  behef 
That,  howsoever  the  issue  went. 
For  evil  or  good  was  the  omen  sent : 

And  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine, 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

As  a  gambler  watches  the  turning  card 

On  which  his  all  is  staked, — 
As  a  mother  waits  for  the  hoi:)eful  word 

For  which  her  soul  has  ached, — 
It  was  thus  Bruce  watched,  with  every  sense 
Centred  alone  in  that  look  intense; 
All  rigid  he  stood,  with  scattered  breath — 
Now  white,  now  red,  but  as  still  as  death: 

Yet  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine, 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 

Six  several  times  the  creature  tried. 

When  at  the  seventh,  "See,  see! 
He  has  spanned  it  over!"  the  captive  cried; 

"Lo!  a  bridge  of  hope  to  me; 
Thee,  God,  I  thank,  for  this  tesson  here 
Has  tutored  my  soul  to  Persevere!" 
And  it  served  him  well,  for  erelong  he  wore 
In  freedom  the  Scottish  crown  once  more: 

And  come  there  shadow  or  come  there  shine. 
The  spider  is  spinning  his  thread  so  fine. 


AT  LAST. — Clarkson  Clothier. 

The  ways  of  life,  mysterious, 

Work  slowly  toward  some  finite  ends. 
Jehovah,  'neath  a  seeming  cloud. 

His  ereatures  to  his  purpose  bends; 
When  suddenly  the  end  appears. 
And  breaks  the  spell  of  waiting  years. 

O  weary  pilgrim !  where  the  path 
Seems  fraught  with  endless  perils  great^ 

Thy  fainting  heart  may  almost  sink 
O' era  wed  by  thy  apparent  fate; 

Take  courage  new,  for  soon  or  late. 

Thy  steps  will  reach  the  Golden  Gate. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  89 

O  warrior,  weary  with  the  strife ! 

Be  not  oppressed  when  numbers  fright; 
Thy  stalwart  foes  may  legion  seem, 

Jiut  don  the  armor,  ligiit  the  tight; 
And  in  the  end,  so  strong  is  right, 
Thy  foes  shall  yield  them  to  thy  might. 

O  seaman !  when  the  tempests  rouse 

And  haste  thy  craft  to  dangers  dark, 
When  mighty  billows  in  the  night, 

Lash  with  their  foam  thy  struggling  bark, 
Be  of  stout  heart,  thy  trusty  hand 
Will  bring  thy  cargo  safe  to  land. 

O  pilgrim !  to  each  weary  path 

There  is  an  ending  in  good  time; 
O  warrior!  in  each  contest  fierce 

Tliere  is  a  victory  sublime ; 
O  seaman !  when  the  voyage  is  o'er, 
There  is  a  haven  near  the  shore. 

Only  ])e  firm ;  have  faith  in  God 

When  darkness  swallows  up  the  light; 

Oft  is  the  sun  obscured  by  clouds — 
To  every  day  there  is  a  night; 

But  unto  those  who  work  and  pray, 

There  comes  an  Everlasting  Day. 


HAMLET'S  GHOST.— Shakspeare. 

I  am  thy  father's  spirit; 

Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night; 

And,  for  the  day,  confined  to  fast  in  fires. 

Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature. 

Are  burned  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  i)rison-house, 

I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whrise  lightest  word 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  fike  stars,  start  from  their  spheres; 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  jiart, 

And  earli  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fr(;tful  porcupine. 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood.     List,  list,  oh,  list! — 

If  thou  didst  over  thy  dear  father  love. 


90  ONE    UUNDKED    CUOICE    SELECTIU^'S 


WHO  WOULD  BE  A  BOY  AGAIN? 

In  company  one  evening,  when  the  song,  "  Would  I  were 
a  boy  again,"  was  called  for,  a  gray-headed  "  old  boy "  dis- 
coursed thus: 

A  boy  again!  Who  would  be  a  boy  again,  if  he  could?  to 
have  measles,  itch,  and  mumps ;  to  get  licked  by  bigger  boys 
and  scolded  by  older  brothers ;  to  stub  toes ;  to  slip  up  on  the 
ice ;  to  do  chores ;  to  get  your  ears  boxed ;  to  get  whaled  by 
a  thick-headed  schoolmaster;  to  be  made  to  stand  up  as  the 
dunce  for  the  amusement  of  the  whole  school  and  be  told 
how  miserable,  weak,  and  stupid  you  were  when  you  were 
born,  and  to  have  the  master  ask  you  what  would  have  be- 
come of  you  at  that  interesting  time  in  life  if  your  parents 
had  not  been  so  patient  with  and  so  kind  to  you;  .to  eat  at 
the  second  table  when  company  comes;  to  set  out  cabbage 
plants  and  thin  corn  because  you  are  little,  and  consequently 
it  wouldn't  make  your  back  ache  so  much ;  to  be  made  to  go 
to  school  when  you  don't  want  to;  to  lose  your  marbles;  to 
have  your  sled  broken ;  to  get  hit  in  the  eyes  with  frozen 
apples  and  soggy  snow  balls ;  to  cut  your  finger ;  to  lose  your 
knife ;  to  have  a  hole  in  your  only  pair  of  pants  when  your 
pretty  cousin  from  the  city  comes  to  see  you;  to  be  called  a 
coward  at  school  if  you  don't  fight;  to  be  whaled  at  home  if 
you  do  fight ;  to  be  struck  after  a  little  girl  and  dare  not  tell 
her ;  to  have  a  boy  too  big  for  you  to  lick  to  tell  you  that 
your  sweetheart  squints;  to  have ' your  sweetheart  cut  you 
dead  and  affiliate  with  that  boy  John  Smith,  whom  you  hate 
particularly  because  he  set  your  nose  out  of  joint  the  week 
before ;  to  be  made  to  go  to  bed  when  you  know  you  ain't  a 
bit  sleepy ;  to  have  no  fire-crackers  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 
no  skates  on  Christmas;  to  want  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter 
with  honey  and  get  your  ears  pulled ;  to  be  kept  from  the 
circus  when  it  comes  to  town  and  when  all  other  boys  go ; 
to  get  pounded  for  stealing  roasting  ears ;  to  get  run  by  bull- 
dogs for  trying  to  nip  watermelons;  to  have  the  canker  rash, 
catechism,  stone  bruises;  to  be  called  up  to  kiss  old  women 
that  visit  your  mother;  to  be  scolded  because  you  like  Mag- 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  9X 

gie  Love  better  than  your  own  sister;  to  be  told  of  a  scorch- 
ing time  httle  boys  will  have  who  tell  lies,  and  are  not  like 
George  Washington ;  to  catch  your  big  brother  kissing  the 
pretty  school  ma'am  on  the  slv,  and  wish  you  were  big  so 
you  could  kiss  her  too,  and — and — why  whj'd  be  a  hoy  ayuin? 


MARMIOX  AND  DOUGLAS— Sik  Walter  Scott. 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day, 
When  ]\Iarmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band. 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide. 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place. 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone, 
"  Let  the  hawk  stoop, — his  prey  is  flown," — 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew. 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu : — 

"Though  something  I  might  'plain,"  he  said, 
-     "  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed. 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand." 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke ; — 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  b<jwers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will. 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer; 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone, — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
An<l  shook  his  verv  frame  for  ire, 

And— "This  to  me!"  he  said,— 
"An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  l)eard. 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  liad  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douj'las'  head! 


92  ONE   UUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
JNIay  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate ! 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here. 

Even  in  thy  pitrh  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee  thou  'rt  defied! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied ! " 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth, — "And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall? 
And  hop'st  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go? 
No,  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms! — What,  warder,  ho! 

Let  the  portcullis  ttill." 
Lord  Marmion  turned, — well  was  his  need! — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung; 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung: 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room. 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies. 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim; 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  readied  his  band. 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"  Horse !  horse ! "  the  Douglas  cried,  "  and  chase ! " 

But  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  pace : 

"A  royal  messenger  he  came, 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. 


St.  Mary,  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  t(hought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
Tis  piity  of  him,  too,"  he  cried ; 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  93 


"Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride, 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  walls. 


SHADOWS. 

We  stood  where  the  snake-like  i\y 

Climbed  over  the  meadow  bars. 
And  watched  as  the  young  night  sprinkled 

The  sky  with  her  cream-white  stars. 
The  clover  was  red  beneath  us — 

The  air  had  the  smell  of  June — 
The  cricket  chirped  in  the  grasses, 

And  the  soft  rays  of  the  moon 

Drew  our  shadows  on  the  meadow. 

Distorted  and  lank  and  tall ; 
Ilis  shadow  was  kissing  my  shadow — 

That  was  the  best  of  all. 
My  heart  leaped  up  as  he  whispered, 

"  I  love  you,  Margery  Lee," 
For  then  one  arm  of  his  shadow 

Went  round  the  shadow  of  me. 

"  I  love  you,  Margery  darling. 

Because  you  are  young  and  fair, — 
For  your  eyes'  bewildering  blueness, 

And  the  gold  of  your  curling  hair. 
No  queen  has  hands  that  are  whiter, 

No  lark  has  a  voice  so  sweet, 
And  y(jur  ripe  young  lips  are  redder 

Than  the  clover  at  your  feet. 

"My  heart  will  break  with  its  fulness, 

Like  a  cloud  overcharged  with  rain; 
Oh,  tell  me,  Margery  darling, 

How  long  we  must  love  in  vain!" 
With  l)lushes  and  smiles  I  answered, 

(I  will  not  tell  what)— just  then 
I  saw  that  his  saucy  sluulow 

Was  kissing  my  own  again. 

He  promised  to  lr)ve  me  only — 
I  promised  to  love  but  him, 


ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Till  the  moon  fell  out  of  the  heavens, 
And  the  stars  with  age  grew  dim. 

Oh,  the  strength  of  man's  devotion ! 
Oh,  the  vows  a  woman  si)eaks ! 

'Tis  years  sinee  that  blush  of  rapture 
Broke  redly  over  my  cheeks. 

He  found  a  gold  that  was  brighter 

Than  that  of  my  floating  curls, 
And  married  a  cross-eyed  widow. 

With  a  dozen  grown-up  girls. 
And  I — did  I  pine  and  languish? 

Did  I  weep  my  blue  eyes  sore? 
Or  break  my  heart,  do  you  fancy, 

For  love  that  was  mine  no  more? 

I  stand  to-night  in  the  meadows, 

Where  Harry  and  I  stood  then, 
And  the  moon  has  drawn  two  shadows 

Out  over  the  grass  again ; 
And  a  low  voice  keeps  repeating — 

So  close  to  my  startled  ear 
That  the  shadows  melt  together — 

"  I  love  you,  Margery  dear. 

"  'Tis  not  for  your  cheeks'  rich  crimson, 

And  not  for  your  eyes  soft  blue, 
But  because  your  heart  is  tender 

And  noble  and  pure  and  true." 
The  voice  is  dearer  than  Harry's, 

And  so  I  am  glad,  you  see, 
He  married  the  cross-eyed  widow, 

Instead  of  Margery  Lee. 


CHARACTER  OF  HENRY  CLAY.— William  H.  Sewakd 

He  was  indeed  eloquent — all  the  world  knows  that.  He 
held  the  keys  to  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  and  he 
turned  the  wards  within  them  with  a  skill  attained  by  no 
other  master.  But  eloquence  was,  nevertheless,  only  an  in- 
strument, and  one  of  many  that  he  used. 

His  conversation,  his  gestures,  his  very  look  was  magiste- 


NUMBER    BEVEN.  95 

rial,  persuasive,  seductive,  irresistible.  And  his  appliance 
of  all  these  was  courteous,  patient,  and  indefatigable.  Defeat 
only  inspired  him  with  new  resolution.  He  divided  opposi- 
tion by  his  assiduity  of  address,  while  he  rallied  and  strength- 
ened his  own  bands  of  supporters  by  the  confidence  of  suc- 
cess which,  feeling  himself,  he  easily  inspired  among  his  fol- 
lowers. 

His  affections  were  high,  and  pure,  and  generous,  and  the 
chiefest  among  them  was  that  one  which  the  great  Italian 
poet  designated  as  the  charity  of  native  land.  In  him,  that 
charity  was  an  enduring  and  overpowering  enthusiasm,  and 
it  influenced  all  his  sentiments  and  conduct,  rendering  him 
more  impartial  between  conflicting  interests  and  sections 
than  any  other  statesman  whi -  has  lived  since  the  Ilevolu» 
tion. 

Thus,  with  great  versatility  ot  talent,  and  the  most  catho- 
lic equality  of  favor,  he  identified  every  question,  whether 
of  domestic  administration  or  foreign  policy,  wdth  his  own 
great  name,  and  so  became  a  perpetual  Tribune  of  the  peo« 
l)le.  He  needed  only  to  pronounce  in  favor  of  a  measure,  or 
against  it,  here,  and  immediately  popular  enthusiasm,  excited 
as  by  a  magic  wand,  was  felt,  overcoming  and  dissolving  all 
opposition  in  the  Senate  chamber. 

In  this  way  he  wrought  a  change  in  our  political  system 
that,  I  think,  was  not  foreseen  by  its  founders.  He  convert- 
ed this  branch  of  the  legislature  from  a  negative  position,  oi 
one  of  equilibrium  between  the  executive  and  the  House 
of  Representatives,  into  the  active,  ruling  power  of  the  re- 
public. Only  time  can  disclose  whether  this  great  innovation 
shall  be  beneficent,  or  even  permanent. 

Certainly,  sir,  the  great  lights  of  the  Senate  have  set.  The 
obscuration  is  no  less  palpable  to  the  country  than  to  us.  who 
are  left  to  groi)e  our  uncertain  way  here,  as  in  a  labyrinth, 
oppressed  with  self-distrust.  The  time,  too,  presents  new 
embarrassments. 

We  are  rising  to  another  and  more  sublime  stage  of  na- 
tional progress — that  of  expanding  wealth  and  rapid  terri- 
torial aggrandizement.  Our  institutions  throw  a  broad 
shadow  across  the  St.  Lawrence,  and,  stretching  beyond  the 
valley  of  Mexico,  reach  even  to  the  plains  of  Central  Amer- 


SC  ONE    HUNDKED    CUOTCE    SELECTIONS 

lea,  while  the  Sandwicli  Islands  and  the  shores  of  China 
recognize  their  renovating  influence. 

Wherever  that  inlluence  is  felt,  a  desire  for  protection 
under  those  institutions  is  awakened.  Expansion  seems  to 
be  regulated,  not  by  any  difficulties  of  resistance,  but  by  the 
moderation  which  results  from  our  own  internal  constitution. 
No  one  knows  how  rapidly  that  restraint  may  give  way. 
Who  can  tell  how  far  or  how  fast  it  ought  to  yield. 

Commerce  has  brought  the  ancient  continents  near  to  us, 
and  created  necessities  for  new  positions — perhaps  connec- 
tions or  colonies  there — and  with  the  trade  and  friendship 
of  the  elder  nations,  their  conflicts  and  collisions  are  brought 
to  our  doors  and  to  our  hearts.  Our  sympathy  kindles  or 
indifference  extinguishes,  the  fires  of  freedom  in  foreign, 
lands. 

Before  we  shall  be  fully  conscious  that  a  change  is  going 
on  in  Europe,  we  may  find  ourselves  once  more  divided  by 
that  eternal  line  of  separation  that  leaves  on  the'  one  side 
those  of  our  citizens  who  obey  the  impulses  of  sympathy, 
while  on  the  other  are  found  those  who  submit  only  to  the 
counsels  of  prudence.  Even  prudence  Tvill  soon  be  required 
to  decide  whether  distant  regions,  east  and  west,  shall  come 
under  our  own  protection,  or  be  left  to  aggrandize  a  rapidly 
spreading  domain  of  hostile  despotism. 

Sir,  Avho  among  us  is  equal  to  these  mighty  questions?  1 
fear  there  is  no  one.  Nevertheless,  the  example  of  Henry 
Clay  remains  for  our  instruction.  His  genius  has  passed  to 
the  realms  of  light,  but  his  virtues  still  live  here  for  our 
emulation.  With  them  there  will  remain,  also,  the  protec- 
tion and  favor  of  the  Most  High,  if,  by  the  practice  of  just- 
ice and  the  maintenance  of  freedom,  we  shall  deserve  them. 

Let,  then,  the  bier  pass  on.  We  will  follow  with  sorrow 
but  not  without  hope,  the  reverend  form  that  it  bears  to  its 
final  resting-place ;  and  then,  when  that  grave  opens  at  our 
feet  to  receive  so  estimable  a  treasure,  we  will  invoke  the 
God  of  our  fathers  to  send  us  new  guides,  like  him  that  is 
now  withdrawn,  and  give  us  wisdom  to  obey  their  instruc- 
tions. 


NUMBE-K    6EYEN. 


I  WAS  WITH  GRANT— Bket  Harte. 

"  I  was  with  Grunt — "  the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 

For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant—"  the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Nay,  no  more— 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 

And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy— my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps? 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 
In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar." 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant—"  "  Nay,  nay,  I  know," 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more ; 

"He  fell  in  battle— I  see,  alas! 

Thou  didst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er— 
Nay ;  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 

though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"How  fell  he?  with  his  face  to  the  foe, 

Upholding  the  flag  he  bore? 
Oh,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 

The  uniform  that  he  wore!" 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"And  should  have  remarked  before. 

That  I  was  with  Grant— in  Illinois— 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man  who  had  worked  fm-  Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


97 


LABOR  IS  WORSHIP.— Frances  S.  Osgood. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us; 
Pause  not  to  wccj)  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us; 
Hark,  how  ('real ion's  deep,  niu^ii'al  chorus, 
Unintermitting,  goes  ui)  into  heaven! 

53 


98  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose-heart  keeps  glowing, 
Till  from  its  nom"ishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship ! " — the  robin  is  singing ; 
"Labor  is  worshiD!"— the  wild  bee  is  ringing; 
Listen !  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  Nature's  great  heart. 
From  thij  dark  cloud  Hows  the  life-giving  shower; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breathing  flower*, 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower;  _ 

(July  7na7i,  in  the  plan,  ever  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life !    'Tis  the  still  water  faileth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth ; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory! — the  flying  cloud  lightens; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens; 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in  tune. 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us, 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us. 

Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
"Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow ; 
Work — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Woe's  weeping-willow; 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will ! 

Labor  is  health !  Lo,  the  husbandman  reaping, 
How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life  current  leaping! 
How  his  strong  arm,  in  its  stalwart  pride  sweeping, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
Labor  is  wealth!     In  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  floweth; 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth; 

Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and  anguish  are  round  t  hce; 
Bravely  fling  off"  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee ; 
Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee; 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a  clod. 
Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly ; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly; 
Labor!  all  labor  is  no])le  and  holy; 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  W 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME.— B.  P.  Shillaber. 

[Mss.  Paktington.) 

There's  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

Within  the  sound  of  its  rippling  tide ; 

Its  walls  are  grey  with  the  moj^ses  of  years, 

And  its  roof  all  crumbled  and  old  appears;  * 

But  fairer  to  me  than  castle's  pride 

Is  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side ! 

The  little  low  hut  was  my  natal  nest, 

When  my  childhood  passed — Life's  springtime  blest; 

Where  the  hopes  of  ardent  youth  were  formed, 

And  the  sun  of  promise  my  young  heart  warmed, 

Ere  I  threw  myself  on  life's  swift  tide, 

And  left  the  dear  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut,  in  lowly  guise, 
AV'as  soft  and  grand  to  my  youthful  eyes, 
And  fairer  trees  were  ne'er  known  before, 
Than  the  apple-trees  by  the  humble  door, — • 
That  my  father  loved  for  their  thrifty  pride,^ 
That  shadowed  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut  had  a  glad  hearthstone, 
That  echoed  of  old  with  a  pleasant  tone, 
And  brothers  and  sisters,  a  merry  crew, 
Filled  the  hours  with  pleasure  as  on  they  flew; 
But  one  V)y  one  the  loved  ones  died. 
That  dwelt  in  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  father  revered  and  the  children  gay 

The  graves  of  the  world  have  called  away; 

But  (juietly,  all  alone,  liere  sits 

By  the  ])k^sant  window,  in  summer,  and  knits, 

An  aged  woman,  long  years  allied 

With  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut  to  the  lonely  wife 
Is  the  cherished  stage  of  lu-r  active  life; 
Each  scene  is  recalled  in  memory's  beam, 
As  she  sits  by  the  window  in  pensive  dream, 
An<l  jnvs  and  woes  roll  l)ack  like  a  tide 
In  that  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

My  mother — alone  ])y  the  river's  side 

Slie  waits  for  tlie  lioud  of  tlie  lieavenly  tide. 


100  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  the  voice  that  shall  thrill  her  heart  with  its  call 

To  meet  once  more  with  the  dear  ones  all, 

And  forms  in  a  region  beautified, 

The  band  that  once  met  by  the  river's  side. 

The  dear  old  hut  by  the  river's  side 

With  the  warmest  pulse  of  my  heart  is  allied, — 

And  a  glory  is  over  its  dark  walls  thrown, 

That  statelier  fabrics  have  never  known, — 

And  I  shall  love  with  a  fonder  pride 

That  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


MONA'S  WATERS. 


Oh!  Mona's  waters  are  blue  and  bright 

When  the  sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young  lover; 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 

When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 
The  wild  wind  drives  the  crested  foam 

Far  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mountain, 
And  booming  echoes  drown  the  voice, 

The  silvery  voice,  of  Mona's  fountain. 

Wild,  wild  against  that  mountain's  side 

The  wrathful  waves  were  up  and  beating, 
AVhen  stern  Glenvarloch's  chieftain  came: 

With  anxious  brow  and  hurried  greeting 
He  bade  the  widowed  mother *end 

(While  loud  the  tempest's  voice  was  raging) 
Her  fair  young  son  across  the  flood, 

Where  winds  and  waves  their  strife  were  waging. 

And  still  that  fearful  mother  prayed, 

"Oh!  yet  delay,  delay  till  morning, 
For  weak  the  hand  that  guides  our  bark, 

Though  brave  his  heart,  all  danger  scorning." 
Little  did  stern  Glenvarloch  heed  : 

"The  safety  f>f  my  fortress  tower 
Depends  on  tidings  he  must  bring 

From  Fairlee  bank,  within  the  hour. 

"  See'st  thou,  across  the  sullen  wave,  # 

A  blood-red  banner  wildly  streaming? 


NUMBER   SEVEN. 


That  flajr  a  message  brings  to  me 

Of  whieh  my  foes  are  little  dreaming. 

The  bov  nuist  put  his  boat  across 

(Gold  shall  repay  his  hour  of  danger,) 

And  bring  me  me  bac-k,  with  care  and  speed, 
Three  letters  from  the  light-browed  stranger." 

The  orphan  boy  leaped  lightly  in; 

Bold  was  his  eye  and  brow  of  beauty. 
And  bright  his  smile  as  thus  he  spoke: 

"  I  do  but  pay  a  vassiii's  duty ; 
Fear  not  for  me,  O  mother  dear]  * 

See  how  the  boat  the  tide  is  spurning; 
The  storm  will  cease,  the  sky  will  clear. 

And  thou  wilt  watch  me  safe  returning." 

His  bark  shot  on — now  up,  now  down, 

Over  the  waves— the  snowy-crested; 
Now  like  a  dart  it  sped  along. 

Now  like  a  white-winged  sea-bird  rested; 
And  ever  when  the  wind  sank  low. 

Smote  on  the  ear  that  woman's  wailing, 
As  long  she  watched,  with  streaming  eyes, 

That  fragile  bark's  uncertain  sailing. 

He  reached  the  shore— the  letters  claimed; 

Triumphant,  heard  the  stranger's  wonder 
That  one  so  young  should  brave  alone 

The  heaving  lake,  the  rolling  thunder. 
And  once  again  his  snowy  sail 

Was  seen  by  her — that  mourning  mother; 
And  once  she' heard  his  shouting  voice  — 

That  voice  the  waves  were  soon  to  smother. 

Wild  burst  the  wind,  wide  flapped  the  sail, 

A  crashing  peal  of  thunder  followed; 
The  gust  swept  o'er  the  water's  face. 

And  caverns  in  the  deep  lake  hollowed. 
The  gust  swept  past,  the  waves  grow  calm, 

The  thun<lcr  died  along  the  mountain; 
But  where  was  he  who  used  to  play, 

On  sunny  days,  by  Mona's  fountain? 

His  cf)ld  corpse  floated  to  the  shore, 

Wlicre  knelt  his  loiu^  and  siirieking  mother; 

And  bitterly  she  wept  for  him, 

The  widow's  son,  who  had  no  brother! 

vv 


101 


102  ONE    HUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

She  raised  his  arm— the  hand  was  closed; 

With  pain  his  stiffened  fingers  parted, 
And  on  the  sand  three  letters  dropped  !— 

His  last  dim  thought— the  faithful-hearted. 

Glenvarloch  gazed,  and  on  his  brow 

Eemorse  with  pain  and  grief  seemed  blending; 
A  purse  of  gold  he  flung  beside 

That  mother,  o'er  her  dead  child  bending. 
Oh !  wildly  laughed  that  woman  then, 

"  Glenvarloch !  would  ye  dare  to  measure 
The  holy  life  that  God  has  given 

Against  a  heap  of  golden  treasure? 

"Ye  spurned  my  prayer,  for  we  were  poor; 

But  Know,  proud  man,  that  God  hath  power 
To  smite  the  king  on  Scotland's  throne, 

The  c;hiefiain  in  his  fortress  tower. 
Frown  on!  frown  on!  I  fear  ye  not; 

We've  done  the  last  of  chieftain's  bidding, 
And  cold  he  hes,  for  whose  young  sake 

I  used  to  bear  your  wrathful  chiding. 

"  Will  gold  bring  back  his  cheerful  voice, 

That  used  to  win  my  heart  from  sorrow? 
Will  silver  warm  the  frozen  blood. 

Or  make  my  heart  less  lone  to-morrow? 
Go  back  and  seek  your  mountain  home. 

And  when  ye  kiss  your  fair-haired  daughter, 
Eemember  him  who  died  to-night 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Mona'S  water." 

Old  years  rolled  on,  and  new  ones  came— 

Foes  dare  not  brave  Glenvarloch's  tower; 
But  naught  could  bar  the  sickness  out 

That  stole  within  fair  Annie's  bower. 
The  o'erblown  floweret  in  the  sun 

Sinks  languid  down,  and  withers  daily. 
And  so  she  sank,— her  voice  grew  faint, 

Her  laugh  no  longer  sounded  gaily. 

Her  step  fell  on  the  old  oak  floor 

As  noiseless  as  the  snow-shower's  drifting ; 
And  from  her  sweet  and  serious  eyes 

They  seldom  saw  the  dark  lid  lifting. 
"  Bring  aid !   Bring  aid  1 "  the  father  cries ; 

"  Bring  aid ! "  each  vassal's  voice  is  crying; 
"The  fair-haired  beauty  of  the  isles. 

Her  pulse  is  fiiint— her  life  is  flying!" 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  103 

He  called  in  vain ;  her  dim  eyes  turned 

And  met  his  own  with  partin*;  sorrow, 
For  well  she  knew,  that  fadinji  pirl, 

That  he  must  weep  and  wail  the  morrow. 
Her  faint  breath  ceased  ;  the  father  bent 

And  erazed  upon  his  fair-liaired  daughter. 
What  thought  he  on?     The  widow's  son, 

And  the  stormy  night  by  Mona's  water. 


MR.  STIVER'S  HORSE.— J.  M.  Bailey. 
(Danbuky  News  Man.) 

The  other  morning  at  breakfast,  Mrs.  Perkins  observed 
that  Mr.  Stiver,  in  whose  house  we  live,  had  been  called 
away,  and  wanted  to  know  if  I  would  see  to  his  horse  through 
the  day. 

I  kncAV  that  Mr.  Stiver  owned  a  horse,  because  I  occasion- 
ally saw  him  drive  out  of  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  stable 
every  day ;  but  what  kind  of  a  horse  I  didn't  know.  I  never 
went  into  the  stable  for  two  reasons:  in  the  first  place,  I  had 
no  desire  to;  and,  secondly,  I  didn't  know  as  the  horse  cared 
particularly  for  company. 

I  never  took  care  of  a  horse  in  my  life,  and  had  I  been  of 
a  less  hopeful  nature,  the  charge  Mr.  Stiver  had  left  with  me 
mi.-cht  have  had  a  very  depressing  eifect;  but  I  told  Mrs. 
Perkins  I  would  do  it. 

"  You  know  how  to  take  care  of  a  horse,  don't  you?"  said 
the. 

I  gave  her  a  reassuring  wink.  In  fact,  I  knew  so  little 
al>out  it  that  I  didn't  think  it  safe  to  converse  more  fluently 
than  by  winks. 

After  V)reakfast  I  seized  a  tooth])ick  and  walked  out  toward 
the  stable.  There  was  nothing  particular  to  do,  as  Stiver 
liad  given  him  his  breakfast,  and  I  found  him  eating  it;  so 
I  looked  around.  The  horse  looked  around,  too,  and  stared 
pretty  liard  at  me.  There  was  but  little  said  on  either  side. 
I  himted  uj)  the  location  of  the  feed,  and  then  sat  down  on 
a  peck  measure,  and  fell  to  studying  the  beast.  There  is  a 
wide  difl'erence  in  horses.    Some  of  them  will  kick  you  over 


104  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

and  never  look  around  to  see  what  becomes  of  you.  I  don't 
like  a  disposition  like  that,  and  I  wondered  if  Stiver's  hoi"se 
was  one  of  them. 

When  I  came  home  at  noon  I  went  straight  to  the  stable. 
The  animal  was  there  all  right.  Stiver  hadn't  told  me  wiiat 
to  give  him  for  dinner,  and  I  had  not  given  the  subject  any 
thought ;  but  I  went  to  the  oat  box  and  filled  the  peck  meas- 
ure, and  sallied  up  to  the  manger. 

When  he  saw  the  oats  he  almost  smiled ;  this  pleased  and 
amused  him.  I  emptied  them  into  the  trough,  and  left  him 
above  me  to  admire  the  way  I  parted  my  hair  behind.  I 
just  got  my  head  up  in  time  to  save  the  whole  of  it.  He 
had  his  ears  back,  his  mouth  open,  and  looked  as  if  he  were 
on  the  point  of  committing  murder.  I  went  out  and  filled 
the  measure  again,  and  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  stall  and 
emptied  it  on  top  of  him.  He  brought  his  head  up  so  sud- 
denly at  this  that  I  immediately  got  down,  letting  go  of  every 
thing  to  do  it.  I  struck  on  the  sharp  edge  of  a  barrel,  rolled 
over  a  couple  of  times,  and  then  disappeared  under  a  hay- 
cutter.  The  i^eck  measure  went  down  on  the  other  side, 
and  got  mysteriously  tangled  up  in  that  animal's  heels,  and 
he  went  to  work  at  it,  and  then  ensued  the  most  dreadful 
noise  I  ever  heard  in  all  my  life,  and  I  have  been  mai-ried 
eighteen  years. 

It  did  seem  as  if  I  never  would  get  out  from  under  thai 
hay-cutter;  and  all  the  while  I  was  struggling  and  wrench- 
ing myself  and  the  cutter  apart,  that  awful  beast  was  kicking 
around  in  that  stall,  and  making  the  most  appalling  sound 
imaginable. 

When  I  got  out  I  found  Mrs.  Perkins  at  the  door.  She  had 
heard  the  racket,  and  had  sjied  out  to  the  stable,  her  onlj 
thought  being  of  me  and  three  stove  lids  which  she  had 
under  her  arm,  and  one  of  which  she  was  about  to  fire  at  the 
beast. 

This  made  me  mad. 

"Go  away,  you  unfortunate  idiot,"  I  shouted;  "do  you 
want  to  knock  my  brains  out?"  For  I  remembered  seeing 
Mrs.  Perkins  sling  a  missile  once  before,  and  that  I  nearly 
lost  an  eye  by  the  operation,  although  standing  on  the  othei 
side  of  the  house  at  the  time. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  105 

She  relired  at  once.  And  at  the  same  time  the  animal 
quieted  down,  but  there  was  nothing  left  of  that  peck  meas- 
ure, not  even  the  maker's  name. 

I  followed  Mrs.  Perkins  into  the  house,  and  had  her  do 
me  up,  and  then  I  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  fell  into  a  pro- 
found strain  of  meditation.  After  a  while  I  felt  better,  and 
went  out  to  the  stable  again.  The  horse  was  leaning  against 
the  stable  stall,  with  eyes  half  closed,  and  appeared  to  be 
very  much  engrossed  in  thought. 

"  Step  off  to  the  left,"  I  said,  rubbing  his  back. 

He  didn't  step.  I  got  the  pitchfork  and  punched  him  in 
the  leg  with  the  handle.  He  immediately  raised  up  both 
hind  legs  at  once,  and  that  fork  flew  out  of  my  hands,  and 
went  rattling  up  against  the  timbers  above,  and  came  down 
again  in  an  instant,  the  end  of  the  handle  rapping  me  with 
such  force  on  the  top  of  the  head  that  I  sat  right  down  on 
the  floor  under  the  impression  that  I  was  standing  in  front 
of  a  drug  store  in  the  evening.  I  went  back  to  the  house 
and  got  some  more  stuff  on  me.  But  I  couldn't  keep  away 
from  that  stable.  I  went  out  there  again.  The  thought 
struck  me  that  what  the  horse  wanted  was  exercise.  If  that 
thought  had  been  an  empty  glycerine  can,  it  would  have 
saved  a  windfall  of  luck  for  me. 

But  exercise  would  tone  him  down,  and  exercise  him  I 
should.  I  laughed  to  myself  to  think  how  I  would  trounce 
him  around  the  yard.  I  didn't  laugh  again  that  afternoon. 
I  got  him  inihitched,  and  then  wondered  how  I  was  to  get 
him  out  of  the  stall  without  carrying  him  out.  I  pushed, 
but  he  wouldn't  budge.  I  stood  looking  at  him  in  the  face, 
thinking- of  something  to  say,  when  he  suddenly  solved  the 
difficulty  by  veering  about  and  plunging  for  the  door.  I  fol- 
lowed, as  a  matter  of  course,  because  I  had  a  tight  hold  on 
the  rope,  and  hit  about  every  i)artition  stud  worth  speaking 
of  on  that  side  of  the  barn.  Mrs.  Perkins  was  at  the  win- 
dow and  saw  us  come  out  of  the  door.  She  subsequently 
remarked  that  we  <'ame  out  skii)ping  like  two  innocent  chil- 
dren. The  skii)ping  was  entirely  unintentional  on  my  part. 
1  felt  as  if  I  stood  on  the  verge  of  eternity.  My  legs  may 
have  skipped,  l>ut  my  mind  was  filled  with  awe. 

I  took  that  auiuial  out  to  exercise  him.    He  exercised  me 


106  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

before  I  got  through  with  it.  lie  went  aronnd  a  few  times 
in  a  circle ;  then  he  stopped  suddenly,  spread  out  his  fore 
legs  and  looked  at  me.  Then  he  leaned  forward  a  little, 
and  hoisted  both  hind  legs,  and  threw  about  two  coal  hod9 
of  mud  over  a  line  full  of  clothesMrs.  Perkins  had  just  hung 
out. 

That  excellent  lady  had  taken  a  position  at  the  window, 
and  whenever  the  evolutions  of  the  awful  beast  permitted, 
I  caught  a  glance  at  her  features.  She  appeared  to  be  very 
much  interested  in  the  proceedings;  but  the  instant  that 
the  mud  flew,  she  disappeared  from  the  window,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  she  appeared  on  the  stoop  with  a  long  poker  in 
her  hand,  and  fire  enough  in  her  eye  to  heat  it  red  hot. 

Just  then  Stiver's  horse  stood  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  tried 
to  hug  me  with  the  others.  This  scared  me.  A  horse  never 
shows  his  strength  to  such  advantage  as  when  he  is  coming 
down  on  you  like  a  frantic  pile  driver.  I  instantly  dodged, 
and  the  cold  sweat  fairly  boiled  out  of  me. 

It  suddenly  came  over  me  that  I  had  once  figured  in  a 
similar  position  years  ago.  My  grandfather  owned  a  little 
white  horse  that  would  get  up  from  a  meal  at  Delmonico's 
to  kick  the  President  of  the  United  States.  He  sent  me  to 
the  lot  one  day,  and  unhappily  suggested  that  I  often  went 
after  that  horse,  and  sufiered  all  kinds  of  defeat  in  getting 
him  out  of  the  pasture,  but  I  had  never  tried  to  ride  him. 
Heaven  knows  I  never  thought  of  it.  I  had  my  usual  trou- 
ble with  him  that  day.  He  tried  to  jump  over  me,  and  push 
me  down  in  a  mud  hole,  and  finally  got  up  on  his  hind  legs 
and  came  waltzing  after  me  with  facilities  enough  to  con 
vert  me  into  hash,  but  I  turned  and  just  made  for  that  fence 
with  all  the  agony  a  prospect  of  instant  death  could  crowd 
into  me.  If  our  candidate  for  the  Presidency  had  run  one- 
half  as  well,  there  would  be  seventy-five  postmasters  in 
Danbury  to-day,  instead  of  one. 

I  got  him  out  finally,  and  then  he  was  quiet  enough,  and 
took  him  up  alongside  the  fence  and  got  on  him.  He 
stopped  an  instant,  one  brief  instant,  and  then  tore  off"  down 
the  road  at  a  frightful  speed.  I  laid  down  on  him  and 
els  sped  my  hands  tightly  around  his  neck,  and  thought  of 
my  home.      When  we  got  to  the  stable  I  was  confident  he 


NVMBBR    SEVEN.  107 

would  stop,  but  he  didn't.  He  drove  straight  at  the  door. 
It  wfis  a  luw  door,  just  high  enough  to  permit  him  to  go  in 
at  liglitning  speed,  but  there  was  no  room  for  me.  I  saw  if 
I  struck  that  stable  the  struggle  would  be  a  very  brief  one. 
I  thought  this  all  over  in  an  instant,  and  then,  spreading 
ont  my  arms  and  legs,  emitted  a  scream,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment I  was  bounding  about  in  the  tilth  of  that  stable  yard. 
All  this  passed  through  my  mind  as  Stiver's  horse  went  up 
into  the  air.    It  frightened  Mrs.  Perkins  dreadfully. 

"  A^'hy,  you  old  fool!"  she  said,  "  why  don't  you  get  rid  of 
him?" 

"How  can  I?"  said  I  in  desperation. 

"  "Why,  there  are  a  thousand  ways,"  said  she. 

This  is  just  like  a  woman.  How  different  a  statesman 
would  have  answered. ' 

But  I  could  think  of  only  two  ways  to  dispose  of  the  beast, 
I  could  either  swallow  him  where  he  stood  and  then  sit  down, 
on  him,  or  I  could  crawl  inside  of  him  and  kick  him  to 
death. 

But  I  was  saved  either  of  these  exijedients  by  his  com- 
ing toward  mo  so  abruptly  that  I  dropped  the  rojie  in  terror, 
and  then  he  turned  about,  and,  kicking  me  full  of  mud,  shot 
for  the  gate,  ripping  the  clothes  line  in  two,  and  went  on 
down  the  street  at  a  horrible  gallop,  with  two  of  Mrs.  Per- 
kins's garments,  which  he  hastily  snatched  from  the  line, 
floating  over  his  neck  in  a  very  picturesque  manner. 

So  I  was  afterwards  told.  I  was  too  full  of  mud  myself  to 
Bee  the  way  into  the  house. 

Stiver  got  his  horse  all  right,  and  stays  at  home  to  care 
for  him.  Mrs.  Perkins  has  gone  to  her  mother's  to  recuper- 
ate, and  I  am  heaUng  as  fust  as  possible. 


LIFE'S  CONFLICT.— William  Wuiteiucxu. 

Let's  fight  life's  battle;  bravely, 

Nor  yield  to  d()nl)(iiig  fear; 
Tlie  Trutli  will  iiiakt;  us  freemen, 

And  win  th<!  victory  hero; 


lOS  ONE    IIUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Our  fathers  fought  before  us. 
In  earth  the  martyr'd  lie ; 

They  sung  defiant  chorus, 
And  taught  us  how  to  die. 

The  soldier  doth  his  scabbard 

Throw  in  the  charge  away ; 
And  press  with  fiery  footstep. 

Deep  in  the  battle  fray: 
So  let  us  while  we're  truthful. 

Fling  from  our  souls  afar 
The  doubt  of  God's  approval, 

Through  all  the  fiercer  war. 

We  musl  fight !    Foes  are  round  us, 

Prompt,  watchful,  ever  bold ; 
Sow  on  our  weakened  outpost. 

Now  at  oiu-  strongest  hold! 
To  battle  is  to  conquer. 

To  jaeld  us  is  to  die ; 
And  spirits  that  have  triumphed,  watch 

The  conflict  from  on  high ! 

There  are  no  hours  of  pleasure, 

Tinae  has  its  stern  demands ; 
Each  moment  hath  its  measure. 

And  a  graver  deed  commands ! 
Though  we  fight  till  life  is  lonely. 

Till  locks  are  thin  and  hoar, 
Death's  armistice  can  only 

Release  us  from  the  war. 

Nor  must  we  bend  to  sorrow, 

Though  loved  ones  round  us  lie ; 
Their^s  is  no  fearful  morrow, 

Marshall'd  to  strive  and  die! 
Our  day  is  only  given 

To  press  the  conquered  waj% 
And  watch  where  we  have  striven. 

Lest  sin  the  soul  betray. 

What  though  the  field  be  rugged, 

The  foe  in  ambush  lie? 
Kough  guerdon  cheer  our  toiling, 

And  storms  our  zeal  defy  I 
Come  brothers,  on,  and  steady — 

Tread  firmly  side  by  side ; 
For  death  must  find  us  ready     • 

To  pass  the  Jordan's  tide. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  109 


THE  RAINBOW. 

I  sometimes  have  thought  in  my  loneliest  hours, 
That  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the  flowers, 
Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon, 
When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom  in  June ; 
The  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late-fallen  showers. 
The  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  o})en  the  flowers; 
AVhile  a  single  white  cloud  to  its  haven  of  rest, 
On  the  white  wing  of  peace  floated  ofl'  in  the  west. 

As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the  cool  breeze 

That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled  the  seas, 

Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 

Its  soft-tinted  pinions  of  purjjle  and  gold! 

'Twas  born  in  a  moment,  \et,  quick  as  its  birth, 

It  has  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 

And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  all  free. 

With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on  the  sea. 

How  calm  was  the  ocean !  how  gentle  its  swell ! 
Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom,  it  rose  and  it  fell. 
While  its  light  si)arkling  waves,  stealing  laughingly  o'er, 
When  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt  down  to  the  shoio ; 
No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of  prayer, 
Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  there, 
And  l^ent  my  young  head  in  devotion  and  love, 
'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel  that  floated  above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful  wings! 

How  l)i)undless  its  circle,  how  radiant  its  rings! 

If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  susi)ended  in  air; 

If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was  there; 

Thus  forming  a  girdle  as  brilliant  and  whole 

As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow  that  I'ircled  my  soul-~ 

Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  unfurled. 

It  bent  from  the  cloud,  and  encircled  the  world. 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the  spirit  receives 
AV'li'(l(;  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten  leave;- ; 
When  the  folds  of  the  heart  in  a  moment  unclose. 
Like  tlu!  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart  of  u  rose; 
And  tlius,  when  the  rainbow  had  j)assed  from  the  sky, 
The  tlion^udits  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to  pass  by; 
It  left  my  full  soul  like  tlu;  wing  of  a  dove, 
And  llutiering  with  pleasure,  and  fluttering  with  xove. 

vv* 


JIO  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

T  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or  pain 
But  shortens  the  hnks  in  life's  mystical  chain ; 
I  know  that  my  form,  Uke  that  bow  from  the  wave, 
May  pass  from  the  earth  and  he  cold  in  the  grave; 
Yet  oh !  when  death's  shadow's  my  bosom  uncloud, — 
AVhen  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  the  coffin  and  shroud, 
May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  unfold 
In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 


POLITICAL  CORRUPTION.— George  McDuffie. 

We  are  apt  to  treat  the  idea  of  our  own  corruptibility  as 
utterly  visionary,  and  to  ask,  with  a  grave  affectation  of  dig- 
nity— what!  do  you  think  a  member  of  Congress  can  be 
corrupted?  Sir,  I  speak  what  I  have  long  and  deliberately 
considered,  when  I  say,  that  since  man  Avas  created,  tliere 
never  has  been  a  political  body  on  the  face  of  the  earth  that 
would  not  be  corrupted  under  the  same  circumstances.  Cor- 
ruption steals  upon  us  in  a  thousand  insidious  forms,  when 
we  are  least  aware  of  its  approaches. 

Of  all  the  forms  in  which  it  can  present  itself,  the  bribery 
of  office  is  the  most  dangerous,  because  it  assumes  the  guise 
of  patriotism  to  accomplish  its  fatal  sorcery.  We  are  often 
asked,  where  is  tlie  evidence  of  corruption  f  Have  you  seen  it  f 
Sir,  do  you  expect  to  see  it?  You  might  as  well  expect  t( 
see  the  embodied  forms  of  pestilence  and  famine  stalking 
before  you,  as  to  see  the  latent  operations  of  this  insidious 
l^ower.  We  may  walk  amid  it,  and  breathe  its  contagion, 
without  being  conscious  of  its  presence. 

All  experience  teaches  us  the  irresistible  power  of  tempt- 
ation, when  vice  assumes  the  form  of  virtue.  The  great 
enemy  of  mankind  could  not  have  consummated  his  infernal 
scheme  for  the  seduction  of  our  first  parents,  but  for  the  dig- 
guise  in  which  he  presented  himself.  Had  he  a]>peared  a-s 
the  devil  in  his  proper  form — had  the  spear  of  Ithuriel  dis- 
closed the  naked  deformity  of  the  fiend  of  hell,  the  inhabit- 
ants of  paradise  would  have  shrunk  with  horror  from  his 
presence. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  Ill 

But  lie  came  as  the  insinuating  serpent,  and  presented  a 
beautiful  apple,  the  most  delicious  fruit  in  all  the  garden, 
lie  told  his  glowing  story  to  the  unsuspecting  victim  of  his 
guile — "It  can  be  no  crime  to  taste  of  this  delightful  fruit — 
it  will  disclose  to  you  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil — it 
will  raise  you  to  an  equality  with  the  angels." 

Such,  sir,  was  the  process;  and,  in  this  simple  but  impres- 
sive narrative,  we  have  the  most  beautiful  and  philosophical 
illustration  of  the  frailty  of  man,  and  the  power  of  tempta- 
tion, that  could  possibly  be  exhibited.  Mr.  Chairman,  I  have 
been  forcibly  struck  with  the  similarity  between  our  present 
situation  and  that  of  Eve,  after  it  was  announced  that  Satan 
was  on  the  borders  of  paradise.  We,  too,  have  been  warned 
that  the  enemy  is  on  our  borders. 

But  God  forbid  that  the  similitude  should  be  carried  any 
further.  Eve,  conscious  of  her  innocence,  sought  temptation 
and  defied  it.  The  catastrophe  is  too  fatally  known  to  us  all. 
She  went  "  with  the  blessings  of  heaven  on  her  head,  and 
its  i^urity  in  her  heart,"  guarded  by  the  ministry  of  angels — 
she  returned  covered  with  shame,  under  the  heavy  denunci- 
iition  of  heaven's  everlasting  curse. 

Sir,  it  is  innocence  that  temptation  conquers.  If  oiu"  first 
parent,  pure  as  she  came  from  the  hand  of  God,  v/as  over- 
come by  the  seductive  power,  let  us  not  imitate  her  fatal 
rashness,  seeking  temptation  when  it  is  in  our  power  to  avoid 
it.  Let  us  not  vainly  confide  in  our  own  infallibility.  We 
are  liable  to  bo  corrupted.  To  an  ambitious  man,  an  honor- 
able office  will  appear  as  beautiful  and  fascinating  as  the 
ai)ple  of  paradise.  • 

I  admit,  sir,  that  ambition  is  a  passion,  at  once  the  most 
powerful  and  the  most  useful.  Without  it  human  affairs 
would  become  a  mere  stagnant  pool.  By  means  of  his  patron- 
age, the  President  addresses  himself  in  the  most  irresistible 
manner,  to  this,  the  noblest  and  strongest  of  our  passions. 
All  that  the  imagination  can  desire — honor,  power,  wealth, 
ease,  are  held  out  as  the  temj)tation.  Man  was  not  made  to 
resist  such  temptation.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive, — Satan 
liimsclf  could  not  devise, — a  system  which  w(juld  more  in- 
falliljly  iiiiroduce  corruption  and  death  into  our  jiolitical 
Edeu.    Sir,  the  angels  fell  from  heaven  with  less  tem])tation. 


112  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


A  SUNIOT  TO  THE  BIG  OX 


COMPOSED   WHILE  STANDING  WITHIN  2  FEET  OP  HIM,  AND  A 
TUCHIN'   of  him  now  and  THEN. 


All  hale!  thon  mighty  annimil— all  hale! 
You  are  4  thousand  pounds,  and  am  purty  wel 
Perporshund,  thou  tremenjos  boveen  nuggit ! 
I  wonder  how  big  you  was  wen  you 
Wos  little,  and  if  yure  muther  wud  no  you  now 
That  you've  grone  so  long,  and  thick,  and  phat ; 
Or  if  yure  father  would  rekognize  his  ofspring 
And  his  kaff;  thou  elefanteen  quodrupid! 
I  wonder  if  it  hurts  you  muti-h  to  be  so  big. 
And  if  you  grode  it  in  a  month  or  so. 
I  spose  wen  you  wos  young  tha  didn't  gin 
You  skim  milk  but  all  the  kreme  you  kud  stuff 
Into  your  little  stummick,  jest  to  see 
How  big  yude  gro ;  and  afterward  tha  no  doubt 
Fed  you  on  otes  and  ha  and  sich  like, 
With  perhaps  an  occasional  punkin  or  squosh ; 
In  all  probability  yu  don't  no  yure  enny 
Bigger  than  a  small  kalf ;  for  if  you  did, 
Yude  brake  down  fences  and  switch  your  tail, 
And  rush  around,  and  hook,  and  heller, 
And  run  over  fowkes,  thou  orful  beast! 
Oh,  what  a  lot  of  mince  pize  yude  maik, 
And  sassengers !  and  your  tale, — 
AVhitch  kan't  wa  fur  from  phorty  pounds, — 
Wud  maik  nigh  unto  a  barrel  of  ox-tail  soop ; 
And  cudn't  a  heep  of  stakes  be  cut  oph  yu, 
Whitch,  with  salt  and  pepper  and  termater 
Ketchup,  wouldn't  be  bad  to  taik. 
Thou  grate  and  glorious  inseckt! 
But  I  must  close,  O  most  prodijus  reptile ! 
And  for  mi  admirashun  of  yu,  when  yu  di, 
I'le  rite  a  node  unto  yore  peddy  and  remanes, 
Pernouncin'  yu  the  largest  of  yure  race ; 
And  as  I  don't  expect  to  have  a  half  a  dollar 
Agin  to  s]iare  for  to  pay  to  look  at  yu,  and  as 
J  ain't  a  ded  head,  I  will  sa,  farewell. 


NUMBER    SEVKN.  '--iv 


HEEVE  KIEL,— Robert  Browning. 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  tlie  English  tight  the  French, — woe  to  France ! 

And,  the  thirty-lirst  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks 
pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the  E.ance. 

"With  the  EngUsh  fleet  in  view. 

Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full  chase, 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfre- 
ville ; 
Close  on  him  tied,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place, 
"Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  as  harbor,  take  us  quick, — or,  quicker 

still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!" 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place,  put  out  brisk  and  leaped  on 
board. 
"  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to  pass  ?  " 
laughed  tliey; 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred 

and  scored, 
Shall  the  Formidable  here,  with  her  twelve  and  eighty  guns, 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 
And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Kow  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight; 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"  Here's  the  Englis'i  at  our  heels ;  would  you  have  them  tak& 

in  tow 
AH  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow. 
For  a  j)rize  to  I'lymouf  li  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground!" 

(Ended  Danifreviile  his  speech.) 
"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

Let  the  captains  all  and  each 

Shove  Hshorc,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the  beach  I 
France  f^n^t  undergo  her  late." 


114  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Give  the  word !  "    But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these, 
A  captain?     A  lieutenant?    A  mate, — first,  second,  third? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the 
fleet,— 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

Andr'  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here  ?  "  cries  Herv^ 
/Riel; 

Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?     Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or 
rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings. 

tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Twixt  the  ofiing  here  and  Greve,  where  the  river  disem' 
bogues? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?    Is  it  love  the  lying's  for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
■  Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet,  and  ruin  France?      That  were  worse  than 
fifty  Hogues ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth !     Sirs,  believe  me. 
there's  a  way ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear. 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them  most  and  least  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Eight  to  Solidor,  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

Iveel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, — 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life ;  here's  my  head ! "  cries  Ilerv^ 
Kiel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron ! "  cried  its 
chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace.  ' 

See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  shij),  with  a  Vjound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  })assage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea'a 
profound  I 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  115 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  foUow  in  a  tlock. 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grate;    the 
ground. 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  perih  see,  is  past, 
AU  are  harbored  to  the  last; 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  halloos  "Anchor  I  "—sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late. 

So  the  storm  subsides  to  calm; 

They  see  tne  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Gre\e: 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance. 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away ! 
'Xeath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee!" 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  captain's  couutenancel 
Outburst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Riel," 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes. 
Just  the  same  mun  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end. 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard: 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the" lips; 
You  have  saved  the  king  liis  ships. 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  nMuaiiis  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart's  content,  and  have!    or  my  name's  not  Dam- 
freville." 

Then  abeam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  l)earded  month  that  spoke. 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  BretoTi  blue: 
"Sin(;e  I  neerls  must  say.  my  say, 
Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 


116  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a 
run  ? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have  I  may, — • 
Since  the  others  go  ashore, — 
Come !    A  good  whole  hoUday !  . 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle  Au- 

rore ! " 
That  he  asked,  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost ; 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  tight  whence  England  bore 
the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris ;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank ; 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herv^  Bicl- 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Bell© 
Aurora. 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  THAT  DIED— J.  D.  Robinson. 

I  am  all  alone  in  my  chamber  now. 

And  the  midnight  hour  is  near, 
And  the  fagot's  crack  and  the  clock's  dull  tick 

Are  the  only  sounds  I  hear; 
And  over  my  soul,  in  its  solitude. 

Sweet  feelings  of  sadness  glide ; 
For  my  heart  and  my  eyes  are -full,  when  I  think 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  went  one  night  to  my  father's  house  — 

Went  home  to  the  dear  ones  all, — 
And  softly  I  opened  the  garden  gate, 

And  softly  the  door  of  the  hall; 


I 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  11^ 

My  mother  c?me  out  to  meet  her  son, 

She  kit^sed  me,  and  then  she  sighed, 
And  her  head  fell  on  my  neck,  and  she  wept 

For  the  little  boy  that  died. 

And  when  I  gazed  on  his  innocent  face, 

As  still  and  cold  he  lay. 
And  thought  what  a  lovely  child  he  had  been, 

And  how  soon  he  must  decav, 
"O  death,  thou  lovest  the  beautiful," 

In  the  woe  of  my  spirit  I  cried ; 
For  sparkled  the  eyes,  and  the  forehead  was  fair, 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died! 

Again  I  will  go  to  my  father's  house, — 

Go  home  to  the  dear  ones  all, — 
And  sadly  I'll  open  the  garden  gate. 

And  sadly  the  door  of  the  hall; 
I  sh:ill  meet  my  mother,  but  nevermore 

With  her  darling  by  her  side, 
But  she'll  kiss  me  and  sigh  and  weep  again 

For  the  little  boy  that  died. 

1  shall  miss  him  when  the  flowers  come 

In  the  garden  where  he  played; 
I  shall  miss  him  more  by  the  fireside. 

When  the  flowers  have  all  decayed ; 
I  shall  see  his  toys  and  his  empty  chair, 

And  the  horse  he  used  to  ricle ; 
And  they  will  speak,  with  a  silent  speech, 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  shall  see  his  little  sister  again 

With  her  ])laymates  about  the  door. 
And  I'll  watch  the  children  in  their  sports, 

As  I  never  did  before ; 
And  if  in  the  group  I  see  a  child 

That's  dimpled  and  laughing-eyed, 
I'll  look  to  see  if  it  may  not  be 

The  little  boy  that  died. 

We  shall  all  go  home  to  our  Father's  house, — 

To  our  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 
Where  the  hope  of  our  souls  shall  have  no  blight, 

And  oyr  love  no  broken  ties; 
We  shall  roam  on  the  banks  of  the  River  of  Peace, 

And  bathe  in  its  bli.-sful  tide: 
And  one  of  the  jovs  of  our  heaven  shall  be 

Tlie  little  boy  tliat  died.  , 


118  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM.— Adelaide  Anne  Pkoctor. 

I  do  not  ask,  0  Lord!  that  life  may  be 

A  pleasant  road ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  woiildst  take  from  nie 

Aught  of  its  load ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 
For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord!  I  plead: 

Lead  me  aright — 
Though  strength  should  falter,  and  though  heart  should 
bleed — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  0  Lord!  that  Thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 
I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

]\Iy  way  to  see, — 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand, 

And  follow  Thee. 
Joy  is  like  restless  day,  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night. 
Lead  me,  O  Lord!  till  perfect  day  shall  shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 


MARK  TWAIN  EDITS  AN  AGRICULTURAL  PAPER. 

S.  C.  Clemens. 

The  sensation  of  being  at  work  once  again  was  luxurious, 
and  I  wrought  all  the  week  with  unflagging  pleasure.  We 
went  to  press,  and  I  waited  a  day  with  some  solicitude  to  see 
whether  my  effort  was  going  to  attract  any  notice.  As  I  left 
the  oflice,  toward  sundown,  a  group  of  men  and  boys  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  dispersed  with  one  impulse,  and  gave  me 
passage-way,  and  I  heard  one  or  two  of  them  say,  "  That's 
him ! "  I  was  naturally  pleased  by  this  incident.  The  next 
morning  I  found  a  similar  group  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  1J9 

scattering  couples  and  individuals  standing  here  and  there 
in  the  street,  and  over  the  way,  watching  me  with  interest. 
The  group  separated  and  fell  back  as  I  aj^proached,  and  I 
heard  a  man  say,  "  Look  at  his  eye ! "  I  pretended  not  to 
observe  the  notice  I  was  attracting,  but  secretly  I  was  pleased 
with  it,  and  was  purposing  to  write  an  account  of  it  to  my 
aunt.  I  went  up  the  short  flight  of  stairs,  and  heard  cheery 
voices  and  a  ringing  laugh  as  I  drew  near  the  door,  which  I 
opened,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  young,  rural-looking 
men,  whose  faces  blanched  and  lengthened  when  they  saw 
me,  and  then  they  both  plunged  through  the  window,  with 
a  great  crash.    I  was  siu-prised. 

In  about  half  an  hour  an  old  gentleman,  with  a  flowing 
beard  and  a  fine  but  rather  austere  face,  entered,  and  sat 
down  at  my  invitation.  He  seemed  to  have  something  on 
his  mind.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  set  it  on  the  floor,  and 
got  out  of  it  a  red  silk  handkerchief  and  a  cojiy  of  our  paper. 
He  put  the  paper  on  his  lai>,  and,  while  he  jiolished  his  spec- 
tacles with  his  handkerchief,  he  said: 

"Are  you  the  new  editor?" 

I  said  I  was. 

"  Have  you  ever  edited  an  agricultural  paper  before?" 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  this  is  my  first  attempt." 

Then  this  old  person  got  up  and  tore  his  paper  all  into 
small  shreds,  and  stamped  on  them,  and  broke  several  things 
with  his  cane,  and  said  I  did  not  know  as  much  as  a  cow; 
and  then  went  out,  and  banged  the  door  after  him,  and,  in 
short,  acted  in  such  a  way  that  I  fancied  he  was  displeased 
about  something.  But,  not  knowing  what  the  trouble  was 
I  could  not  be  any  help  to  him. 

But  these  thoughts  were  quickly  banished,  when  the  reg« 
ular  editor  walked  in!  [I  thought  to  myself,  Now  if  you 
had  gone  to  Egyi)t,  as  I  recommended  you  to,  I  might  havo 
had  a  chance  to  get  my  hand  in ;  but  you  wouldn't  do  it,  and 
here  you  are.    I  sort  of  exi)ected  you.] 

The  editor  was  looking  sad,  and  jierplexed,  and  dejected. 
He  surveyed  the  wreck  which  that  old  rioter  and  these  two 
young  farmers  had  made,  and  then  said  : 

"This  is  a  sad  iHisincss — a  very  s;ul  business.  There  is  the 
mucilage  bottle  broken,  and  six  panes  of  glass,  and  a  spit- 


120  ONE   IIUNDHED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

toon,  and  two  candlesticks.  But  that  is  not  the  worst.  The 
reputation  of  the  paper  is  injured,  and  pernianently,  I  fear. 
True,  there  never  was  such  a  call  for  the  paper  before,  and 
it  never  sold  such  a  large  edition  or  soared  to  such  celebrity ; 
but  does  one  want  to  be  fiimous  for  lunacy,  and  prosper  upon 
the  infirmities  of  his  mind?  My  friend,  as  I  am  an  honest 
man,  the  street  out  here  is  full  of  people,  and  others  are 
roosting  on  the  fences,  waiting  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you,  be- 
cause they  think  you  are  crazy.  And  well  they  might,  after 
reading  your  editorials.  They  are  a  disgrace  to  journalism. 
Why,  what  put  it  into  your  head  that  you  could  edit  a  paper 
of  this  nature?  You  do  not  seem  to  know  the  first  rudiments 
of  agriculture.  You  speak  of  a  furrow  and  a  harrow  as  be- 
ing the  same  thing;  you  talk  of  the  moulting  season  for 
cows;  and  you  recommend  the  domestication  of  the  pole-cat 
on  account  of  its  playfulness  and  its  excellence  as  a  ratter. 
Your  remark  that  clams  will  lie  quiet  if  music  be  played  to 
them,  was  supertiuous — entirely  superfluous.  Nothing  dis- 
turbs clams.  Clams  always  lie  quiet.  Clams  care  nothing 
whatever  about  music.  Ah !  heavens  and  earth,  friend,  if 
you  had  made  the  acquiring  of  ignorance  the  study  of  your 
life,  you  could  not  have  graduated  with  higher  honor  than 
you  could  to-day.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Your  ob- 
servation that  the  horse-chestnut,  as  an  article  of  commerce, 
is  steadily  gaining  in  favor,  is  simply  calculated  to  destroy 
this  journal.  I  want  you  to  throw  up  your  situation  and  go. 
I  want  no  more  holiday — I  could  not  enjoy  it  if  I  had  it. 
Certainly  not  with  you  in  my  chair.  I  would  always  stand 
in  dread  of  what  you  might  be  going  to  recommend  next. 
It  makes  me  lose  all  jiatience  every  time  I  think  of  your  dis- 
cussing oyster-beds  under  the  head  of '  Landscape  Gardening.' 
I  want  you  to  go.  Nothing  on  earth  could  persuade  me  to 
take  another  holiday.  Oh !  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you 
didn't  know  anything  about  agriculture?" 

"  Tell  you,  you  cornstalk,  you  cabbage,  you  son  of  a  cauli- 
flower! It's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  such  an  unfeeling 
remark.  I  tell  you  I  have  been  in  the  editorial  business 
going  on  fourteen  years,  and  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard 
of  a  man's  having  to  know  anything  in  order  to  edit  a  news- 
t)aper.    You  turnip! 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  121 

"I  take  my  leave,  sir  I  Since  I  have  been  treated  as  you 
have  treated  me,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  go.  But  I  have 
done  my  duty.  I  have  fultilled  my  contract,  as  far  as  I  was 
permitted  to  do  it.  I  said  I  could  make  your  paper  of  inte- 
rest to  all  classes,  and  I  have.  I  said  I  could  run  your  circu- 
lation up  to  twenty  thousand  copies,  and  if  1  had  liad  two 
more  weeks  I'd  have  done  it.  And  I'd  have  given  you  the 
best  class  of  readers  tliat  ever  an  agricultural  paper  had — • 
not  a  farmer  in  it,  nor  a  solitary  individual  who  could  tell  a 
watermelon  from  a  peach-vine  to  save  his  life.  You  are  the 
loser  by  this  rujature,  not  me,  Pie-plant.    Adios." 

I  then  left. 


THE  BOY  WHO  WENT  FROM  HOME. 
Emma  M.  Johnston. 

"You  ask  me  which  is  the  dearest, 

And  which  one  I  love  tlie  best; 
Ah,  neighbor,  the  treasure  we  lose, 

We  value  more  than  the  rest! 
Five  children  are  round  our  hearth-stone, 

You'd  think  I  should  make  no  moan; 
But  my  heart  goes  out  with  yearning 

To  the  boy  who  went  from  home. 

"Come  in  and  sit  awhile  with  me, 

INIy  neighbor  so  kind  and  true; 
It  surely  cannot  be  a  harm 

To  talk  to  a  friend  like  you 
About  this  wayward  boy  of  mine. 

Gone  ivoni  us  these  fifteen  years; 
And  bow  the  thought  of  him  has  kept 

My  pillow  wet  with  tears. 

"You  never  saw  liim,  neighbor  mine? 

Ah,  a  handsome  lad  was  he! 
In  face  he  was  like  his  father, 

Ilis  temper  ho.took  from  me. 
We  both  were  over-fonil  of  hiui, 

And  maybe  it  was  too  true 
That  we  spoiled  him  just  a  little, 

As  fond  parents  often  do. 

64 


122  ONE    UUNDEED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  But  he  had  sm-h  a  smihng  way, 

And  a  blue  and  sunny  ej'e ; 
And  my  heart  was  hke  a  heart  of  wax 

AV^henever  my  boy  was  by. 
And  no  matter  what  he  wished  for, 

Nor  where  he  wanted  to  go ; 
Try  as  hard  as  ever  I  would, 

I  never  could  say  him  no. 

"He  grew  a  bit  wild  and  thoughtless, 

And  wouldn't  settle  down: 
He  laughed  at  his  mother's  chidings, 

Nor  heeded  his  father's  frown. 
At  last  his  father  grew  angry, 

And  they  had  a  word  or  two ; 
Ah,  neighbor,  how  for  a  life-time 

A  word  or  two  we  may  rue  1 

"And  so  one  day  he  left  us — 

Ah,  my  darling,  handsome  lad 
I  never  could  say,  good  neighbor, 

That  ever  he  did  aught  bad. 
He  was  very  quick,  but  noble; 

And  wayward,  but  loving  too ; 
The  fault  was  mostly  on  our  side, — 

I  say  this  'twixt  me  and  you. 

"I'm  glad  I've  said  this  much  to  you, 

For,  neighbor,  you  cannot  know 
What  'tis  to  have  a  sorrow  hke  mine, 

Nor  say  a  word  as  you  go. 
I  feel  a  little  ease  of  heart, 

Though  you  have  said  not  a  word, — 
Just  listen  a  minute,  neighbor. 

Was  that  a  step  that  1  heard? 

"Perhaps  I  am  growing  childish, 

For  at  times  it  comes  to  me 
That  one  day  my  boy  will  come  again. 

The  boy  I  long  to  see. 
I  must  have  been  weak  and  faulty, 

But  Christ  hath  long  forgiven. 
And  all  my  pray'rs  for  my  wand'rer 

Are  treasured  up  in  heaven. 

"His  father  never  looked  the  same, 
But  stooped  and  grew  quite  gray ; 

As  for  me,  my  grief  keeps  vigil 
Since  the  day  he  went  away. 

Just  fifteen  years — a  long,  long  time  !— 
My  good  neighbor,  what  was  that  ? 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  123 

I  thought  above  the  garden  fence 
I  just  oiw  a  well-worn  hat. 

"Stand  out  of  my  light,  dear  neighbor! 

Oh,  surely  I  hear  a  sound ! 
The  latch  of  the  gate  seems  lifted, 

Can  it  be  the  lost  is  found? 
O  neighbor,  I'm  worn  and  weary ! 

I  wonder  if  this  could  be 
My  long-lost  boy  come  home  again, 

Come  back  to  his  home  and  me." 

The  latch  of  the  gate  was  lifted, 

And  gently  let  fall  again — 
A  bearded  man  with  boyhood's  eyes 

Came  into  the  sunlight  then, 
And  he  pushed  aside  the  neighbor — 

How  strange  she  felt  no  alarms! — 
And  he  lifted  his  grey  old  mother 

Right  up  in  his  two  strong  arms; 
Andshe  sobbed  upon  his  shoulder; 

"Ah,  the  heart  doth  knoAV  its  own! 
For  lo !  my  boy  is  back  again — 

My  boy  Avho  went  from  home." 


MERCY. — Shakspeake. 


The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 
It  dro]ipeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath:  it  is  twice  blessed; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes: 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power 
Th'  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 
But  mercy  is  alcove  this  sceptred  sway, — 
It  is  entlironed  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  eartldy  power  doth  then  sliow  likest  God'3 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Tlicrefore,  Jew, 
Tliougli  justice  l;e  thy  plea,  consider  tliis — 
Til  at  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Sliiiuld  seo  salvation:  we  do  pray  for  mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  shtjuld  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 


124  ONE     IIUNDUED     CHOICE    SELECTION! 


UNION  LINKED  WITH  LIBERTY— Andrew  Jackson. 

Without  Union,  our  independence  and  liberty  would  never 
have  been  achieved;  without  Union,  they  can  never  be 
maintained.  Divided  into  twenty-four,  or  even  a  smaller 
number  of  separate  communities,  we  shall  see  our  internal 
trade  burdened  with  numberless  restraints  and  exactions ; 
communication  between  distant  points  and  sections  ob- 
structed, or  cut  off;  our  sons  made  soldiers,  to  deluge  with 
blood  the  fields  they  how  till  in  peace;  the  mass  of  our  peo- 
ple borne  down  and  impoverished  by  taxes  to  support  armies 
and  navies ;  and  military  leaders,  at  the  head  of  their  victo- 
rious legions,  becoming  our  lawgivers  and  judges.  The  loss 
of  liberty,  of  all  good  government,  of  peace,  jjlenty,  and 
happiness,  must  inevitably  follow  a  dissolution  of  the  Union. 
In  supporting  it  therefore,  we  support  all  thst  is  dear  to  the 
freeman  and  the  philanthropist. 

The  time  at  which  I  stand  before  you  is  full  of  interest. 
The  eyes  of  all  nations  are  fixed  on  our  llepublic.  The  event 
of  the  existing  crisis  will  be  decisive,  in  the  opinion  of  man- 
kind, of  the  practicability  of  our  Federal  system  of  Govern- 
ment. Great  is  the  stake  placed  in  our  hands ;  great  is  the 
responsibility  which  must  rest  upon  the  people  of  the  United 
States-  Let  us  realize  the  importance  of  the  attitude  in 
which  we  stand  before  the  world.  Let  us  exercise  forbear- 
ance and  firmness.  Let  us  extricate  our  country  from  the 
dangers  which  surround  it,  and  learn  wisdom  from  the  les- 
sons they  inculcate.  Deeply  impressed  with  the  truth  of 
these  observations,  and  under  the  obligation  of  that  solemn 
oath  which  I  am  about  to  take,  I  shall  continue  to  exert  all 
my  faculties  to  maintain  the  just  powers  of  the  Constitution, 
and  to  transmit  unimpaired  to  posterity  the  blessings  of  our 
Federal  Union. 

At  the  same  time  it  will  be  my  aim  to  inculcate,  by  mj'  of- 
ficial acts,  the  necessity  of  exercising,  by  the  General  Gov- 
ernment, those  powers  only  that  are  clearly  delegated;  to 
encourage  simplicity  and  economy  in  the  expenditures  of  the 
Government ;  to  raise  no  more  money  from  the  people  than 
may  be  requisite  for  these  objects,  and  in  a  manner  that  will 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  12.~) 

best  promote  the  interests  of  all  classes  of  the  community, 
and  of  all  portions  of  the  Union.  Constantly  bearing  in 
mind  that,  in  entering  into  society,  "individuals  must  give 
up  a  share  of  liberty  to  preserve  the  rest,"  it  will  be  my  de- 
sire so  to  discharge  my  duties  as  to  foster  with  our  brethren, 
in  all  parts  of  the  country,  a  spirit  of  liberal  concession  and 
compromise ;  and,  by  reconciling  our  fellow-citizens  to  those 
partial  sacrifices  which  they  must  unavoidably  make,  for  the 
preservation  of  a  greater  good,  to  recommend  our  invaluable 
Government  and  Union  to  the  confidence  and  affections  of 
the  American  people.  Finally,  it  is  my  most  fervent  prayer 
to  that  Almighty  Being  before  whom  I  now  stand,  and  who 
has  kept  us  in  his  hands  from  the  infancy  of  our  Republic 
to  the  present  day,  that  he  will  so  overrule  all  my  intentions 
and  actions,  and  inspire  the  hearts  of  my  fellow-citizens, 
that  we  may  be  preserved  from  dangers  of  all  kinds,  and 
continue  forever  a  united  anu  happy  i'kople. 


TIM  TWINKLETON'S  TWINS.— Chaeles  A.  Bell. 

Tim  Twinkleton  was,  I  would  have  you  to  know, 

A  cheery-faced  tailor,  of  Pinea])ple  Row; 

His  svmjiathies  warm  as  the  irons  he  used, 

And  liis  temi)er  quite  even,  because  not  al)nsed. 

As  a  fitting  reward  for  his  kindness  of  heart. 

He  was  blessed  with  a  partner  both  comely  and  smart. 

And  ten  "olive  branches," — four  girls  and  six  boys — 

Completed  the  household,  divided  its  joys. 

But  another  "surprise"  was  in  store  for  Tim  T., 
Who,  one  l)right  (.'hristmas  morning  was  sip]>ing  coffee, 
When  a  neighbor  (who  acted  as  nurse,)  said  with  glee, 
V'ou've  just  been  presented  with  timis!    Do  you  see?" 
"Good  gracious!"  said  Tim,  overwhelmed  with  surprise, 
For  he  scarce  could  ))e  made  to  believe  his  own  eyes; 
His  astonishment  o'er,  he  acknowledged  of  course 
That  the  trouble,  indeed,  might  have  been  a  deal  '\^orse. 

The  twins  were  two  boys,  and  poor  Tim  was  inclined 
To  believe  tlicm  the  handsomest  pair  you  could  lind, 

WW 


]26  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  fathers'  and  mothers'  opinions,  they  say- 
Always  fiivor  their  own  cliildren  just  the  same  way. 
"  Would  you  like  to  step  up,  sir,  to  see  Mrs.  T.?" 
The  good  lady  said ;  "  she's  as  pleased  as  can  be." 
Of  course  the  proud  father  dropp'd  both   fork  and  knife, 
And  bounded  up  stairs  to  embrace  his  good  wife. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Tim  Twinkleton— I  should  have  said — 
An  industrious,  frugal  life  always  had  led. 
And  kept  the  large  family  from  poverty's  woes, 
By  washing,  and  starching,  and  ironing  clothes. 
But,  before  the  young  twins  had  arrived  in  the  town, 
She'd  intended  to  send  to  a  family  named  Brown, 
Who  resided  some  distance  outside  of  the  city, 
A  basket  of  clothes;  so  she  thought  it  a  pity 

That  the  basket  should  meet  any  further  delay, 
And  told  Tim  to  the  depot  to  take  it  that  day. 
He  promised  he  would,  and  begun  to  make  haste, 
For  he  found  that  there  was  not  a  great  while  to  waste. 
So,  kissing  his  wife,  he  bade  her  good-bye, 
And  out  of  the  room  in  an  instant  did  hie ; 
He  met  the  good  nurse  on  the  stairs,  coming  up 
With  the  "  orthodox  gruel,"  for  his  wife,  in  a  cup. 

"Where's  the  twins?"  said  the  tailor.  "Oh,  they  are  all  right," 
The  good  nurse  replied ;  "  they  are  looking  so  bright ! 
I've  hushed  them  to  sleep,— they  look  so  like  their  Pop,— j 
And  I've  left  them  down  stairs,  where  they  sleep  like  atop." 
In  a  hurry  Tim  shouldered  the  basket,  and  got 
To  the  rail-station,  after  a  long  and  sharp  trot. 
And  he'd  just  enough  time  to  say  "  Brown— Norristown-" 
A  basket  of  clothes—"  and  then  the  train  was  gone. 

The  light-hearted  tailor  made  haste  to  return. 

For  his  heart  with  aflection  for  his  family  did  burn; 

And  it's  always  the  case,  with  a  saint  or  a  sinner, 

Whate'er  may  occur,  he's  on  hand  for  his  dinner. 

"How  are  the  twins?"  was  his  first  inquiry; 

"  I've  hurried  home  quickly  my  darlings  to  see," 

In  ecstasy  quite  of  his  reason  bereft. 

"  Oh,  the  dear  little  angels  hain't  cried  since  you  left  1 

"Have  you,  my  sweets?" — and  the  nurse  turned  to  where 
Just  a  short  time  before,  were  her  objects  of  care. 
"Why- which  of  you  children,"  said  she  with  surprise, 
" Removed  that  ar  basket?— now  don't  tell  no  lies!" 
"Basket!  what  basket?"  cried  Tim  with  affright; 
"Why,  the  basket  of  clothes— I  thought  it  all  right 
To  put  near  the  fire,  and,  fearing  no  harm. 
Placed,  the  twins  in  so  cozy,  to  keep  them  quite  warm." 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  127 

Poor  Tim  roared  aloud:  "Why,  what  have  I  done? 

You  surely  must  mean  what  you  say  but  in  funl 

That  basket!  my  twins  I  shall  ne'er  see  again! 

Why,  I  scut  them  both  off  by  the  12  o'clock  train/ 

The  nurse,  at  these  words,  sank  right  into  a  chair 

And  exe-laimed,  "  O  my  preciouses  dear,  you  hain't  there! 

Go,  Twinkleton,  go,  telegraph  like  wildfire!" 

"Why,"  said  Tim,  "they  can't  send  tlie  twins  home  on  the  wire.'" 

"  Oh  dear ! "  cried  poor  Tim,  getting  ready  to  go ; 
"Could  ever  a  body  have  met  with  such  woe? 
Sure  this  is  the  greatest  of  greatest  mistakes; 
Why,  the  tirins  vill  be  all  squushed  doini  i^tio pancakes!" 
Tini  Twinkleton  hurried  as  if  all  creation 
Were  after  him,  quick,  on  his  way  to  the  station. 
"That's  the  man, — O  you  wretch!"  and,  tight  as  a  ras}-), 
Poor  Tim  found  himself  in  a  constable's  grasp. 

"Ah!  ha!  I  have  got  yer,  now  don't  say  a  word, 

Yer  know  very  well  about  what  has  occurred ; 

Come  'long  to  the  station-house,  hurry  up  now. 

Or  'tween  you  and  me  there'll  be  a  big  row." 

"What's  the  charge?"  asked  the  tailor  of  the  magistrate, 

"I'd  like  to  find  out,  for  it's  getting  quite  late;" 

"So  you  shall,"  he  replied,  but  don't  look  so  meek, — 

You'deserted  your  infants, — now  hadn't  you  cheek?" 

Now  it  happened  that,  during  the  trial  of  the  case, 
An  acquaintance  of  Tim's  had  stepped  into  the  place, 
And  he  quickly  perceived,  when  he  heard  in  detail 
The  facts  of  the  case,  and  said  he'd  go  bail 
.To  any  amount,  for  good  Tim  Twinkleton, 
For  he  knew  he  was  innocent,  "sure  as  a  gnn."_ 
And  the  railway-clerk's  evidence,  given  in  detail, 
AVas  not  quite  sufficient  to  send  him  to  jail. 

It  was  to  effect,  that  the  squalling  began 

Just  after  the  basket  in  the  baggage-van 

Had  ])inm  placed  by  Tim  T.,  who  solemnly  swore 

That  he  was  quite  ignorant  of  their  presence  before. 

So  the  basket  was  brought  to  the  magistrate's  sight. 

And  the  twins  on  the  top  of  the  clothes  looked  so  bright, 

Tliat  the  magistrate's  heart  of  a  sudden  enlarged. 

And  he  ordered  that  Tim  Twinkleton  be  discharged. 

Tim  grasped  up  the  basket  and  ran  for  dear  life, 

And  wlien  he  reached  home  he  first  asked  for  his  wife; 

i>ut  tlie  imrse  said  with  joy,  "Since  yon  left  slic  lias  slei)t, 

And  from  her  the  mistakes  of  to-day  I  have  kept." 

Poor  Tim,  and  the  nurse,  and  all  the  small  fry, 

Before  taking  dinner,  indulged  in  a  cry. 

The  twins  are  now  grown,  and  thfy  time  and  again 

lielate  their  excursion  on  the  railway  tnun. 


128  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


MAN  MAY  BE  HAPPY— Peter  Pindar. 

"  Man  may  be  happy,  if  he  will : " 
I've  said  it  often,  and  I  think  so  still; 

Doctrine  to  make  the  million  stare! 
Know  then,  each  mortal  is  an  actual  Jove : 
Can  brew  what  weather  he  shall  most  approve. 

Or  wind,  or  calm,  or  foul,  or  fair. 

But  here's  the  mischief — man's  an  ass,  I  say ; 

Too  fond  of  thunder,  lightning,  storm,  and  rain; 
He  hides  the  charming,  cheerful  ray 

That  spreads  a  smile  o'er  hill  and  plain  ! 
Dark,  he  must  court  the  skull,  and  spade,  and  shroud- 
The  mistress  of  his  soul  must  be  a  cloud. 

Wlio  told  him  that  he  must  be  cursed  on  earth? 

The  God  of  Nature  ? — No  such  thing ; 
Heaven  whispered  him,  the  moment  of  his  birth, 

"  Don't  cry,  my  lad,  but  dance  and  sing ; 
Don't  be  too  wise,  and  be  an  ape : — 
In  colors  let  thy  soul  be  dressed,  not  crape. 

"Eoses  shall  smooth  life's  journey,  and  adorn  ; 
Yet  mind  me — if,  through  want  of  grace. 
Thou  mean'st  to  fling  the  blessing  in  my  face. 

Thou  hast  full  leave  to  tread  upon  a  thoru.'^ 

Yet  some  there  are,  of  men,  I  think  the  worst, 
Poor  imps!  unhappy  if  they  can't  be  cursed — 

Forever  brooding  over  Misery's  eggs. 
As  though  life's  pleasure  were  a  deadly  sin ; 
Mousing  forever  for  a  gin 

To  catch  their  happiness  by  the  legs. 

Even  at  a  dinner  some  will  be  unblessed, 
However  good  the  viands,  and  Avell  dressed: 

They  always  come  to  table  with  a  scowl, 
Bquint  with  a  face  of  verjuice  o'er  each  dish. 
Fault  the  poor  flesh,  and  quarrel  with  the  fish. 

Curse  cook  and  wife,  and,  loathing,  "eat  and  growl. 

A  cart-load,  lo !  their  stomachs  steal, 
Yet  swear  they  cannot  make  a  meal. 
I  like  not  the  blue-devil-hnnting  crew ! 

I  hate  to  drop  the  discontented  jaw! 
Oh !  let  me  Nature's  simple  smile  pursue, 

And  pick  even  pleasure  from  a  straw. 


NUMBER    SEVEN. 


129 


THE  STAB.— Will  Wallace  Harney. 

On  the  road,  the  lonely  road, 

Under  the  cold,  white  moon  ; 

Under  the  rugged  trees  he  strode, 
Whistled  and  shifted  his  heavy  load,— 

AVhistled  a  foolish  tune. 

There  was  a  step,  timed  with  his  own, 

A  figure  that  stooped  and  bowed : 
A  cold  white  blade  that  dashed  and  shone. 
Like  a  splinter  of  daylight  downward  thrown,— 

And  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud. 

But  the  moon  came  out  so  broad  and  good 

The  barn-fowl  woke  and  crowed, 
Then  rouirhed  his  feathers  in  drowsy  mood  ; 
And  the  brown  owl  called  to  his  mate  in  the  wood. 

That  a  man  lay  dead  in  the  road. 


SONG  OF  STEAM.— George  W.  Cutter. 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands. 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein. 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  1  laughed  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight, 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might, 

And  the  pride  of  human  power.^^-'^^ 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  seas, 
Creei)ing  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  wayward  breeze, — 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  whicli  he  daily  bore. 
As  he  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar, — 

When  I  measured  the  i)anting  courser's  speed, 

The  flight  of  the  carrier  dove. 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed, 

Or  the  lines  of  impatient  love, 

55* 


130  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

I  could  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar, 
"When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !    They  found  me  at  last. 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length, 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  a  thunder  blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength ! 
Oh !  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 

On  the  earth  and  the  ocean  wide. 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 


The  ocean  pales  where'er  I  SM^eep, 

To  hear  my  strength  rejoice. 
And  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower  trembling  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  and  the  lord  of  earth, 

The'  thoughts  of  his  godlike  mind; 
The  wind  lags  after  mj^  going  forth, 

The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine, 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play ; 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline. 

Or  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  day ; 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

From  the  hidden  caves  below. 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel, 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made. 

I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint, — 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave  ; 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

I've  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  brains  to  decay, 

No  bones  to  be  "  laid  on  the  shelf," 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  "go  and  play," 

While  I  manage  the  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands. 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein. 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 


JJUMBKR    SEVEN.  131 


THE  DOUBLE  BED. 

A  new  AVestern  town,  but  lately  reclaimed  from  the  wil- 
derness, where  the  housesarefew,  mean,  and  ugly,  the  streets 
mud  or  dust,  the  trees  destroyed,  and  the  general  appearance 
one  of  poverty  struggling  with  heavy  obstacles,  where  the 
wolves  run  the  mail  in  ahead  of  time,  and  night  is  made 
hideoas  by  a  tailor  practising  on  a  flute — this  is  a  good  place 
to  keep  away  from. 

Into  such  a  town  as  this,  and  during  court  week,  I  once 
rode  on  horseback,  at  the  end  of  a  weary  day;  passed  into  a 
continuous  mud  hole,  studded  with  stumps  and  ornamented 
with  logs,  that  a  benighted  country  called  a  road.  Night  had 
already  closed  in,  and  I  was  guided  to  the  hotel  by  the  thou- 
sand and  one  boys  of  the  place,  and  the  noise  issuing  from 
the  bar-room,  no  less  beastly  and  disagreeable.  I  found  the 
landlord  shut  up  in  a  corner  pen,  dealing  out  liquid  insanity 
to  his  customers.  To  my  request  for  supper  and  a  bed  he 
responded  that  I  could  eat  my  fill,  but  there  was  not  a  bed 
unengaged  or  not  occupied  in  the  house.  I  persisted,  until 
the  wretch  informed  me  that  there  was  "  a  feller  "  in  No.  6 
occupying  a  double  bed,  and  J.  could  "  roll  in  there,"  if  so 
minded. 

It  was  dismal,  but  my  only  hope ;  so  after  the  evening  in- 
digestion, I  climbed  the  rough  stairs  to  No.  6.  I  was  told  by 
the  landlord  to  walk  in  without  knocking,  and  did  so. 

I  found  my  companion  measuringoff  his  dreams  by  snores, 
and,  undressing,  "  rolled  in,"  as  the  landlord  had  suggested. 
The  stranger  turned  over,  with  something  between  a  growl 
and  a  grunt,  as  I  crept  to  his  side. 

Tired  as  I  was,  I  could  not  sleep.  The  bed-tick  felt  as  if 
it  were  stuffed  with  grasshoppers,  and  the  pillows  VA'ere  of 
the  sort  to  slip  up  one's  nose  in  the  night,  and  be  sneezed 
out  some  time  during  the  day.  Besides  this,  my  bedfellow 
snored  abominably.  It  sounded  like  a  giant  trying  to  blow 
"Old  Hundred"  through  a  tin  horn,  witlioyt  knowing  ex- 
actly how.  I  bore  this  infliction  as  long  as  I  could,  and  at 
last  gave  my  friend  a  dig  in  the  ribs,  exclaiming  at  the  same 
time, 


132  ONE    IIUNDKED     CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"Isay!"_ 

" Ilillo — sh — what  is  it?"  he  asked,  in  a  confused  way. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  I  think  it  uiy  duty  to  in- 
form you  that  I  walk  in  my  sleep." 

"  Well,  walk." 

"  My  Christian  friend,  I  am  well  aware  that  this  is  a  free 
country,  and  if  a  man  wishes  to  walk  in  his  sleep,  there  is 
no  constitutional  provision  to  prevent  him.  But  I  wish  to 
remark  that  if  I  do  walk  you  had  better  not  interfere  with 
me." 

"  Oh,  walk !  I  won't  say  a  word  about  it." 

"  Well,  don't.  When  addressed  or  interfered  with,  I  am 
apt  to  get  furious.  I  nearly  brained  a  poor  man  with  a  doj^- 
iron  the  other  night." 

"  The  deuce  you  did !  That's  rather  disagreeable.  A  fel- 
low might,  under  an  impulse,  blurt  out  something  to  you." 

"  Better  not." 

"  No,  I  should  think  not." 

A  long  pause  followed  this.  At  last  the  now  wide-awake 
lodger  asked  abruptly : 

"  Did  you  notice  my  hat  on  the  floor? " 

"  I  believe  I  did." 

"  If  you  walk,  you  know,  I'd  rather  you  would  not  step  in 
it." 

"  I'll  bear  that  in  mind." 

After  another  pause  he  again  asked : 
Did  you  notice  that  door  on  the  left  ?  " 

"  I  saw  a  door  on  my  left." 

"  Well,  if  you  walk,  I'd  advise  you  not  to  go  out  there.  It 
opens  on  a  porch,  only  the  porch  hasn't  been  built,  and  it's 
twenty  feet  down  into  the  stable-yard." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  shall  walk  out  of  that  door." 

"  Don't  think  I  would  if  I  walked  much." 

I  supposed  my  inquisitive  friend  was  dropping  into  a  sleep, 
when  he  again  broke  out : 

"  I  say,  did  you  really  brain  a  man  with  a  dog-iron?" 

"  I  tried  pretty  hard." 

Then  came  in  a  silence  that  was  not  broken.  After  a  litr 
tie  while  I  heard  my  bedfellow  creeping  softly  from  the 
other  side  of  the  bed.      I  could  hear  him  feeling  about  for 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  133 

his  hat  and  his  clothes.  Then  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  the  door  had  closed  softly  on  my  retreating 
tormentor.     I  rolled  over  and  slept  the  sleep  of  innocence. 

The  next  morning,  on  descending  to  breakfast,  I  found  an 
old  friend  seated  at  the  table.  We  had  not  met  for  years. 
After  a  cordial  greeting,  I  said ; 

"Are  you  stopping  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  trying.  But  I  am  nearly  dead.  I  slept  on 
a  bench  in  the  bar-room,  amid  a  lot  of  drunken  brutes  who 
sang  '  Bingo '  for  wagers  of  drink  all  night." 

"  Could  you  get  no  bed  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  had  a  double  bed  to  myself  when  that  stupid  ass 
of  a  landlord  sent  up  a  crazy  fellow,  who  walked  and  struck 
out  with  dog-irons." 

"  Good  heavens,  Gillipsy,  was  that  you  ?  " 

"And,  D.,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  served  me  that 
infernal  trick !  "         » 

It  was  a  case  that  called  for  diplomatic  explanation. 


WW 


HEROES  OF  GREECE.— Byeon. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying ; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing; 
The  waters  murmured  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray. 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay; 
Their  sj)irits  wrapped  the  dusky  mountain  ; 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain; — 
The  meanest  rill,  tlie  mightiest  river. 
Rolled  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 

Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
liiat  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs! 
'Tis  still  a  watchw(»rd  to  the  earth: — 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth. 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head: 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 
* 


134  OXE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  IDIOT  BOY. 

It  had  pleased  God  to  form  poor  Ned 

A  thing  of  idiot  mind, 
'£et  to  the  poor,  unreasoning  boy 

God  had  not  been  mikind. 

Old  Sarah  loved  her  helpless  child, 
Whom  helplessness  made  dear, 

And  life  was  everything  to  him 
Who  knew  no  hope  or  fear. 

She  knew  his  wants,  she  understood 

Each  half-articulate  call, 
For  he  was  everything  to  her. 

And  she  to  him  was  all. 

And  so  for  many  a  year  they4ived, 

Nor  knew  a  wish  beside ; 
But  age  at  length  on  Sarah  came, 

And  she  fell  sick — and  died. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  waken  her, 

He  called  her  o'er  and  o'er ; 
They  told  him  she  was  dead, — the  word 

To  him  no  import  bore. 

They  closed  her  eyes  and  shrouded  her, 
Whilst  he  stood  wondering  by, 

And  when  they  bore  her  to  the  grave. 
He  followed  silently. 

They  laid  her  in  the  narrow  house, 

And  sung  the  funeral  stave. 
And  when  the  mournful  train  dispersed. 

He  loitered  by  the  grave. 

The  rabble  boys  that  used  to  jeer 
Whene'er  they  saw  poor  Ned, 

Now  stood  and  watched  him  at  the  grave, 
And  not  a  word  was  said. 

They  came  and  went  and  came  again. 

And  night  at  last  drew  on ; 
Yet  still  he  lingered  at  the  place 

Till  eveiy  one  had  gone. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  135 

And  when  lie  found  himself  alone 

He  quick  removed  the  clay, 
And  raised  the  cotfin  in  his  arms 

And  bore  it  swift  away 

Straight  went  he  to  his  mother's  cot 

And  laid  it  on  the  tioor, 
And  with  the  eagerness  of  joy, 

He  barred  the  cottage  door. 

At  once  he  placed  his  mother's  corpse 

Upright  within  her  chair, 
And  then  he  heaped  the  hearth  and  blew, 

The  kindling  tire  with  care. 

She  was  now  in  her  wonted  chair, — 

It  was  her  wonted  place, — 
And  bright  the  fire  blazed  and  flashed. 

Reflected  from  her  face. 

Then,  bending  down,  he'd  feel  her  hands, 

Anon  her  face  behold; 
"  Why,  mother,  do  you  look  so  pale. 

And  why  are  you  so  cold  ?  " 

A  nd  when  the  neighbors  on  next  morn 

Had  forced  the  cottage  door. 
Old  Sarah's  corpse  was  in  the  chair, 

A.nd  Ned's  was  on  the  floor. 

Tt  had  pleased  God  from  this  poor  boy 

His  only  friend  to  call ; 
Yet  God  was  not  unkind  to  him. 

For  (J^ath  restored  him  all. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE.— S.  Olin. 

Some  one  asked  the  Duke  of  Wellington  what  his  secret 
was  for  tdnning  battles.  And  he  said  that  he  had  no  secret, 
that  he  did  not  know  liow  to  win  battles,  and  tluit  no  man 
knew.  For  all,  he  said,  that  man  could  do  was  to  look  be- 
ftirehand  steadily  at  all  the  chances,  and  lay  all  possible 
plans  beforehand;  but  from  the  moment  the  battle  began, 
he  said,  no  mortal  prudence  was  of  use,  and  no  mortal  man 
couid  know  what  tlie  end  would  be.     A  thousand  new  acci- 


136  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

den^s  might  spring  up  every  hour,  and  scatter  all  his  plans 
to  the  winds;  and  all  that  man  could  do  was  to  comfort  him- 
self with  the  thought  that  he  had  done  his  best,  and  to  trust 
in  God. 
)  ^.  Now,  my  friends,  learn  a  lesson  from  this,  a  lesson  for  the 
^battle  of  life,  which  every  one  of  us  has  to  fight  from  our 
tradle  to  our  grave — the  battle  against  misery,  poverty,  mis- 
fortune, sickness — the  battle  against  worse  enemies  even  than 
Uiey — the  battle  against  our  own  weak  hearts  and  the  sins 
which  so  easily  beset  us ;  against  laziness,  dishonesty,  profli- 
gacy, bad  tempers,  hard-heartedness,  deserved  disgrace,  the 
contempt  of  our  neighbors,  and  just  punishment  from  Al- 
mighty God.  Take  a  lesson,  I  say,  from  the  great  duke  for 
the  battle  of  life.  Be  not  fretful  and  anxious  about  the 
morrow.  Face  things  like  men ;  count  the  chances  like 
men  ;  lay  your  plans  like  men  ;  but  remember,  like  men, 
that  a  fresh  chance  may  any  moment  spoil  all  your  plans ; 
remember  that  tliere  are  a  thousand  dangers  round  you  from 
which  your  prudence  cannot  save  you.  Do  your  best,  and 
then,  like  the  great  duke,  comfort  yourselves  with  {hethomjht 
that  you  have  done  your  best,  and,  like  him,  trust  in  God. 
Remember  that  God  is  really  and  in  very  truth  your  Father, 
and  that  without  him  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground ;  and 
are  ye  not  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows,  O  ye  of  little 
faith? 

Remember  that  he  knows  what  you  have  need  of  before* 
you  ask  him ;  that  he  gives  you  all  day  long,  of  his  own  free 
generosity,  a  thousand  things  for  which  you  never  dream  of 
asking  him  ;  and  believe  that  in  all  the  chances  and  changes 
of  this  life,  in  bad  luck  as  well  as  in  good,  in  failure  as  well 
as  success,  in  poverty  as  well  as  wealth,  in  sickness  as  well 
as  health,  he  is  giving  you  and  me  and  all  mankind  good 
gifts,  which  we  in  our  ignorance,  and  our  natural  dread  of 
what  is  unpleasant,  should  never  dream  of  asking  him  for, 
but  which  are  good  for  us  nevertheless — like  him  from  whom 
they  come,  the  Father  of  light,  from  whom  comes  every 
good  and  perfect  gift;  who  is  neither  neglectful,  capricious, 
nor  spiteful,  for  in  him  is  neither  variableness  nor  shadow 
of  turning,  but  who  is  always  loving  unto  every  man,  and  hi:) 
mercy  is  over  all  his  works. 


NUMiJER   SaVEN.  13^ 


A>:  UNFORTUNATE  LIKENESS —W.  S.  Gilbert. 

I've  painted  Shakspeare  all  my  life, —  ;« 

"An  infant,"  (even  then  at  play!) 

"A  boy,"  with  stage-ambition  rife, 
Then  "  Married  to  Ann  Hathaway." 

"The  bard's  first  ticket  night,"  (or  "  ben.") 
His  "  First  appearance  on  the  stage," 

His  "  Call  before  the  curtain," — then 
"  Rejoicings  when  he  came  of  age." 

The  bard  play-writing  in  his  room, 
The  bard  a  lunuble  lawj-er's  clerk, 

The  bard  a  lawyer — parson — groom — 
The  bard  deer-stealing  after  dark. 

The  bard  a  tradesman — and  a  Jew — 

The  bard  a  botanist — a  beak — 
The  bard  a  skilled  musician  too — 

A  sheriff  and  a  surgeon  eke ! 

Yet  critics  say  (a  friendly  stock) 

That,  though  it's  evident  I  try, 
Yet  even  I  can  barely  mock 

The  glimmer  of  his  wondrous  eye ! 

One  morning,  as  a  work  I  framed, 
There  passed  a  person,  walking  hard: 

"  My  gracious  goodness,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  How  very  like  my  dear  old  bard ! 

"  Oh  !  what  a  model  he  would  make !" 
I  rushed  outside — impulsive  me ! — 

"  Forgive  the  liberty  I  take. 

But  you're  so  very — "  "  Stop ! "  said  he, 

"  You  needn't  waste  your  breath  or  time, — 
I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say, — 

That  you're  an  artist,  and  that  I'm 
Remarkably  like;  Shakspeare.     Eh? 

"You  wish  that  I  would  sit  to  you?" 
I  clasped  him  madlv  round  tlu^  waist. 

And  breathlessly  replied,  "I  do!" 

"All  right,"  said  he,  "  but  please  make  haste." 


138  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTlUNS 

I  led  him  by  his  hallowed  sleeve, 
And  worked  away  at  him  apace, 

I  painted  him  till  dewy  eve, — 
There  never  was  a  nobler  face ! 

" Oh,  sir,"  I  said,  "a  fortune  grand 
Is  yours,  by  dint  of  merest  chance, — 

To  sport  Ms  brow  at  second-hand. 
To  wear  his  cast-off  countenance ! 

"  To  rub  his  eyes  whene'er  they  ache — 
To  wear  his  baldness  ere  you're  old — 

To  clean  his  teeth  when  you  awake — 
To  blow  his  nose  when  you've  a  cold ! " 

His  eyeballs  glistened  in  his  eyes — 

I  sat  and  watched  and  smoked  my  pipe ; 

"  Bravo !  "  I  said,  "  I  recognize 
The  phrensy  of  your  prototype ! " 

His  scanty  hair  he  wildly  tore : 

"  That's  right,"  said  I,  "  it  shows  your  breed." 
He  danced — he  stamped — he  wildly  swore — 

"  Bless  me,  that's  very  fine  indeed ! " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  grand  Shaksperian  boy, 

(Continuing  to  blaze  away,) 
"  You  think  my  face  a  source  of  joy ; 

That  shows  you  know  not  what  you  say. 

"  Forgive  these  yells  and  cellar-flaps : 
I'm  always  thrown  in  some  such  state 

When  on  his  face  well-meaning  chaps 
This  wretched  man  congratulate. 

"  For  oh !  this  face — this  pointed  chin — 
This  nose — this  brow — ^these  eyeballs  too. 

Have  always  been  the  origin 
Of  all  the  woes  I  ever  knew ! 

"  If  to  the  play  my  way  I  find. 
To  see  a  grand  Shaksperian  piece, 

I  have  no  rest,  no  ease  of  mind 
Until  the  author's  puppets  cease ! 

"  Men  nudge  each  other — thus — and  say, 
'  This  certainly  is  Shakspeare's  son,' 

And  merry  wags  (of  course  in  play) 
Cry  'Author  I '  when  the  piece  is  done. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  139 

"  In  church  the  people  stare  at  me, 

Their  soul  the  sermon  never  binds; 
I  catch  them  looking  round  to  see, — 

And  thoughts  of  Shukspeare  fill  their  minds, 

"And  sculptors,  fraught  with  cunning  wile, 

Who  find  it  diliicult  to  crown 
A  bust  with  Brown's  insipid  smile. 

Or  Tomkins's  unmannered  frown, 

"Yet  boldly  make  my  face  their  own. 
When  (oh,  i)resumption!)  they  require 

To  animate  a  i)aving-stone 

AVith  Shakspeare's  intellectual  fire. 

"At  parties  where  young  ladies  gaze, 

And  I  attempt  to  speak  my  joy, 
'  Hush,  pray,'  some  lovely  creature  says, 

'  The  fond  illusion  don't  destroy ! ' 

"  Whene'er  I  speak  my  soul  is  wrung 
With  these  or  some  such  whisperings: 

"Tis  pity  that  a  Shakspeare's  tongue 

Should  say  such  un-Shaksperian  things ! ' 

"  I  should  not  thus  be  criticised 

Had  I  a  face  of  common  wont : 
Don't  envy  me — now,  be  advised ! " 

And,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  don't. 


A  KISS  AT  THE  DOOR. 

We  were  standing  in  the  doorway, 

My  little  wife  and  I : 
The  golden  sun  upon  lier  hair 

Fell  down  so  silently  ; 
A  small  white  hand  upon  my  arm, — 

What  could  I  ask  for  more 
Tlian  the  kiudly  glance  of  loving  eyes, 

As  she  kissed  me  at  the  door? 

I  know  she  loves  with  all  her  heart 
The  one  who  stands  beside, 

And  the  years  have  })een  so  joyous, 
Since  first  I  called  lier  bride; 


I40  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

We've  had  so  much  of  happiness 
Since  we  met  in  years  before, 

But  the  happiest  time  of  all  was  when 
She  kissed  me  at  the  door. 

Who  cares  for  wealth  of  land  or  gold, 

For  fame  or  matchless  power  ? 
It  does  not  give  the  happiness 

Of  just  one  little  hour 
With  one  who  loves  me  as  her  life — 

She  says  she  loves  me  more — 
And  I  thought  she  did  this  morning, 

When  she  kissed  me  at  the  door. 

At  times  it  seems  that  all  the  world, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  gold, 
Is  very  small  and  poor  indeed. 

Compared  with  what  I  hold ; 
And  when  the  clouds  hang  grim  and  dark, 

I  only  think  the  more 
Of  one  who  waits  the  coming  step 

To  kiss  me  at  the  door. 

If  she  lives  till  age  shall  scatter 

Its  frost  upon  her  head, 
I  know  she'll  love  me  just  the  same 

As  the  morning  we  were  wed ; 
But  if  the  angels  call  her. 

And  she  goes  to  heaven  before, 
I  shall  know  her  when  I  meet  her, — 

For  she'll  kiss  me  at  the  door. 


MY  CREED.— Alice  Caey. 

I  hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  charity  is  seen  ;  that  when 

We  climb  to  heaven,  'tis  on  the  romids 
Of  love  to  men. 

I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 

A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretence ; 

Where  centre  is  not,  can  there  be 
Circumference  ? 


I 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  141 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

AtErm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go, — 

"Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  hillabies 

That  eliarm  to  rest  the  nursing  bird, 

Or  tliat  sweet  contidence  of  sighs 
And  blushes,  made  without  a  word. 

Wliether  the  dazzling  and  the  flush 
Of  softly  sumptuous  garden  bowers, 

Or  by  some  cabin  door,  a  bush 
Of  ragged  flowers. 

'Tis  not  the  wide  phylactery, 
Nor  stub1)orn  fasts,  nor  stated  prayers, 

That  make  us  saints ;  we  judge  the  tree 
By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 

From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 
I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 

Is  dry  as  dust. 


I 


L 


"  ROCK  OF  AGES." 

"  Eock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung; 
FeU  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlisli,  gleeful  tongue ; 
Sang  as  little  children  sing ; 

.Sang  as  sing  the  birds  in  June ; 
Fell  the  words  like  liglit  leaves  down 

On  the  current  of  the  tune — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee," — 
Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide — 

Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 
And  she  had  no  thought  ])eside; 

All  the  words  uiiheediugly 

Fell  from  Ups  untouched  by  care. 


142  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

I>reaming  not  that  they  might  be 

On  some  other  Hps  a  prayer — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," — 

'Twas  a  woman  sung  them  now, 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully. 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 
Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 

Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air, 
Every  note  with  sorrow  stirred. 

Every  syllable  a  prayer — 
'■  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," — 

Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustingly  and  tenderly, 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim- 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee," 

Trembling  though  the  voice  and  low, 
Ran  the  sweet  strain  peacefully, 

Like  a  river  in  its  flow ; 
Sang  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  thorny  path  have  prest; 
Sang  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  behold  the  promised  rest — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," — 

Sung  above  a  coffin  lid ; — 
Underneath,  all  restfully, 

All  life's  joys  and  sorrows  hid ; 
Nevermore,  O  storm-tossed  soul ! 

Nevermore  from  wind  or  tide. 
Nevermore  from  billow's  roll 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless,  sunken  eyes. 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hairj 
Could  the  mute  and  stiffened  lips 

Move  again  in  pleading  prayer. 
Still,  aye,  still,  the  words  would  be,-= 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 


-NUMBER    SEVEN.  343 

LORD  DUNDREARY  AT  BRIGHTON, 

AND    TUB   RIDDLE    HE    MADE   THERE. 

One  of  the  many  popular  delusions  wespecting  the  Bwit- 
Ish  swell  is  the  supposition  that  he  leads  an  independent 
hfe, — goes  to  bed  when  he  likes,  gets  up  when  he  likes, 
d-dwesses  how  he  likes,  and  dines  when  he  i^leases. 

The  public  are  gwossly  deceived  on  this  point.  A  weal 
swell  is  as  ni-much  under  authowity  as  a  p-poor  devil  of  a 
pwivate  in  the  marines,  a  clerk  in  a  government  office,  or  a 
f-fourth-form  boy  at  Eton.  Now  I  come  under  the  demon — 
demonima — (no, — thtop, — what  is  the  word  ?) — dom — denom 
— d-denomination, — thut'th  it — I  come  under  the  denomina- 
tion of  a  swell — (In — in  fact — a  hoicwid  swell — some  of  my 
friends  call  me,  but  Uuit'th  only  their  flattewy,)  and  I  assure 
you  a  f- fellah  in  that  capacity  is  so  much  westwained  by  rules 
of  f-fashion,  that  he  can  scarcely  call  his  eye-glath  his  own. 
A  swell,  I  take  it,  is  a  fellah  who  t-takes  care  that  he  swells 
as  well  as  swells  who  swell  as  well  as  he,  (there's  thuch  a  lot 
of  th welling  in  that  thentence, — ha,  ha ! — it's  what  you  might 
c-call  a  busting  definition).  What  I  mean  is,  that  a  f-fellah 
is  obliged  to  do  certain  things  at  certain  times  of  the  year, 
whether  he  likes  'em  or  no.  For  instance,  in  the  season  I've 
got  to  go  to  a  lot  of  balls  and  dwums  and  tea-fights  in  town 
thf^t  I  don't  care  a  bit  about,  and  to  show  myself  in  the  Park 
wegularly  evewy  afternoon ;  and  latht  month  I  had  to  Aac- 
timize  mythelf  down  in  the  countwj', — shooting  (a  bwutal 
sort  of  amusement,  by  the  way).  Well,  about  the  end  of  Oc- 
t(>1)er  evewy  one  goes  to  Bwighton,  n-no  one  knowth  why,— 
that'th  the  betht  of  it, — and  so  I  had  to  go  too, — that'th  the 
wortht  of  it, — ha,  ha ! 

Not  that  it's  such  a  b-bad  place  after  all, — I  d-dare  say  if  I 
hadn't  had  to  go  I  should  have  gone  all  the  same,  for  what  is 
a  f-fellah  to  do  wbo  ithn't  much  of  a  sportsman  just  about 
this  time?  There'th  n-nothing  particular  going  on  in  Lon- 
don. Evowything  is  b-beathly  dull ;  so  I  thought  T  would 
just  nm  down  on  the  Southeastern  Wailway  to  be— ha,  hal 


146  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

different  way.  He  said  it  was :  When  ith  a  door  not  a  doorf 
— and  the  answer,  When  it  ith  ajar ! 

I — I've  been  thinking  over  the  matter  lately,  and  though 
I  dare  thay  it — d-don't  much  matter  which  way  the  question 
is  put,  still — pwaps  the  last  f-form  is  the  betht.  It — it  seems 
ko  me  to  ivead  better.    What  do  you  think  ? 

Now  I  weckomember,  I  made  thuch  a  jolly  widdle  the 
other  day  on  the  Ethi3lanade.  I  thaw  a  fellah  with  a  big 
New — Newfoundland  dog,  and  he  inthpired  me — the  dog,  you 
know,  not  the  fellah, — he  wath  a  lunatic.  I'm  keeping  th« 
widdle,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you. 

Why  does  a  dog  waggle  hith  tail?  Give  it  up?  I  think 
motht  fellahs  will  give  that  up ! 

You  thee,  the  dog  waggles  hith  tail  becauth  the  dog's 
etwongcr  than  the  tail.  If  he  wathn't,  the  tail  would  waggle 
the  dog! 

Ye-eth, — that'th  M'hat  T  call  a  -niddle.  If  I  can  only  wec- 
ollect  him,  I  thall  athtonish  those  two  girls  thome  of  these 
days. 


ftilLTON'S  PRAYER  OF  PATIENCE.— Elizabeth  Lloyd 

I  am  old  and  blind ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown ; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 

1  am  weak,  yet  strong: 
I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see ; — 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 

Father  Sui^reme !  to  Thee. 

0  merciful  One ! 
When  men  are  forthest,  then  art  Thou  most  near; 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to  shun, 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 
Is  leaning  towards  me,  and  its  holy  light 
fliunes  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place, — 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  147 

On  my  bended  knee, 
I  recognize  Thy  purpose,  clearly  shown ; 
My  vision  Thou  hast  dimmed,  that  I  may  see 

Thyself— Thyself  alone. 

I  have  nought  to  fear ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing; 
Beneath  it  1  am  almost  sacred, — here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

Oh !  I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been, 
Wrapped  in  the  radiance  of  Thy  sinless  land 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go, — 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now, — 
When  heaven  is  ripening  on  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  airs  from  Paradise  refresh  my  brow, 

That  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime. 
My  being  fills  with  rapture, — waves  of  thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit, — strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  l\Te ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  di\ane ; 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire, 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


THE  CTD  AND  BAVIECA. 


The  king  looked  on  him  kindly,  as  on  a  vassal  true ; 
Vhen  to  till!  king  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  reverence  due, 
"O  king!  the  thing  is  shameful,  that  any  man  beside 
The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself,  should  Buvieca  ride : 

"  For  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another  charger  bring 
So  good  as  he,  and  certes.  the  best  befits  my  king. 
But,  that  you  may  ]:)ehold  him,  and  know  liini  to  the  core, 
I'll  make  "him  go  us  he  wua  wont  when  his  nostrils  srooit  tlie 
Moor." 


118  ONE    HUXDItED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

With  that  the  Cid,  clad  as  he  was,  in  mantle  furred  and  wide, 

On  Biivieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  liis  side ; 

And  up  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  so  tierce  was  his 

career, 
Streamed  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind,  Ruy  Diaz'  minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  praised  them, — they  lauded  man  and 

horse. 
As  matched  well,  and  rivals  for  gallantry  and  force ; 
Ne'er   had   they  looked  on  horseman  might  to  this  knight 

come  near. 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

Thus,  to  and  fro  a-rushing,  the  fierce  and  furious  steed. 
He  8na)>ped  in  twain  his  nether  rein  :— "  God  i)ity  now  the 

Cid  !— 
God  pity  Diaz ! "    cried  the  lords,—  but  when  they  looked 

again. 
They  saw  Ruy  Diaz  ruling  him  with  the  fragment  of  his  rein ; 
They  saw  him  prcnidly  ruliug  with  gesture  firm  and  calm, 
Like  a  true  lord  commanding,  and  obeyed  as  by  a  lamb. 

And  so  he  led  him  foaming  and  panting  to  the  king. 
But,  "  No,"  said  Don  Alj)honso,  it  were  a  shameful  thing, 
That  peerless  Bavieca  should  ever  be  bestrid 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar, — mount,  mount  again,  my  Cid ! '' 


SOCKS  FOR  JOHN  RANDALL.— Mrs.  P.  IL  Phelps. 

It  was  a  matter  of  talk  tliat  AYidow  Randall  knit  so  many 
socks  for  the  soldiers.  She  was  a  poor  woman,  and  had  little 
to  do  with ;  but  she  must  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  yarn,  buying  so  much  of  the  best  at  war  prices.  Knit- 
ting seemed  almost  a  mania  with  her.  She  was  sometimes 
seen  knitting  before  breakfast.  No  sooner  was  her  house- 
work done,  than  out  came  her  knitting,  and  her  needles  flew, 
click,  click,  click,  faster  even  than  they  did  when  her  fingers 
were  young  and  supple ;  while  her  pale,  sad  face  bending 
above  them  made  one  almost  weep  to  look  at  her.  She  wj)s 
one  of  those  who  do  not  weep,  but  who  ever  carry  a  full 
fountain  of  tears  sealed  up  within  them. 

Not  a  box  in  all  the  country  near  was  sent  to  the  soldiers 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  14& 

ilial  did  not  contain  a  pair  of  Widow  Eandall's  socks ;  and 
box  after  box  from  the  Sanitary  Commission  carried  lier  con- 
tributions. Always  welcome, — so  soft,  so  warm,  so  nice  were 
her  socks.  The  appreciative  could  not  help  unrolling  them, 
feeling  their  softness  and  speaking  their  praise  ;  and  always 
carefully  stitched  within  them  they  found  a  letter.  Some- 
times it  was  only,  "  To  my  dear  son,  John  Randall,  from  his 
ever-loving  mother;"  sometimes  it  told  of  her  love,  and 
hope,  and  earnest  prayer ;  sometimes  it  implored  him  to 
write  to  hei,  and  tell  her  that  he  lived,  and  tell  her  of  hia 
welfare  if  he  lived. 

How  many  soldiers  were  blessed  through  her  love  for  one ! 
How  many  felt  a  glow  of  thanks  as  they  drew  her  comfort- 
ing socks  over  their  benumbed  feet,  and  dro])pedatear  upon 
her  tender  letter  to  the  son  who  might  then  be  perishing 
uncared  for,  unknowing  how  a  mother's  love  had  sought  for 
him,  prayed  for  him,  unceasingly. 

A  pair  of  "  socks  for  John  Randall "  once  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  poor  motherless  English  boy.  His  lone,  yearn- 
ing, orphan  heart  responded  to  the  maternal  tenderness 
which  he  had  missed  and  mourned  for  in  his  own  life ;  and 
with  the  instincts  of  a  son,  he  wrote  the  widowed  mother  a 
letter  of  love  and  thanks  in  the  name  of  all  the  absent  and 
wandering  sons,  and  sent  her  gold,  and  offered  to  be  her  son, 
if  God  had  bereaved  her  of  her  own. 

A  pair  of  "  John  Randall's  socks  "  worked  their  way  into 
a  Kentucky  regiment  at  the  west.  There  a  rough,  hard  old 
soldier  got  possef«ion  of  them,  and  found  the  note  within 
them,  and  read  it  aloud  to  the  silent  group  around  him.  In 
that  group  was  a  lone  youth  who  had  come  a  stranger  into 
the  regiment,  and  who  never  spoke  of  his  home  or  friends. 
No  one  listened  to  the  note  so  intently  as  he,  and  it  was 
strange  to  see  how  his  color  came  and  went  as  he  listened. 
Then  the  tears  rolled  fast  down  his  cheeks. 

"Give  me  the  letter,"  he  said;  " it  is  from  my  mother. 
The  letter  and  the  socks  are  mine." — "Yours!  is  your  name 
John  Randall?"— "Yes."  A  hearty  laugh.  "Randall!  You 
can't  come  that  game  so  easy.  Boy  George." 

"  Boy  George,"  as  the  youth  was  familiarly  called,  colored 
deei>er  than  before,  but  persisted.      "  My  real  name  is  Johu 

XX 


150  ONI:    IIUNDUKD    CIIOICK    SKIECTIONS 

Randall,  and  the  letter  and  socks  are  mine."  "  Yours  when 
you  get  'em,  and  not  much  before,"  answered  the  man  who 
had  them.  "  If  you've  changed  your  name  once,  you  may 
change  it  a  dozen  times,  but  that  won't  give  you  my  socks." 

"  Boy  George  "  said  no  more  about  the  socks,  but  again 
asked  for  and  received  the  letter.  He  sought  a  quiet  place 
and  read  it,  and  read  it  again.  "  My  dearest  son,  dearest  be- 
yond all  expression,  if  you  are  still  living,  write  to  me  and 
tell  me  so ;  if  you  love  me  still,  be  a  good  boy,  and  try  to 
meet  me  in  heaven." 

This  was  all ;  but  it  was  enough  for  the  heart  of  that  un- 
dutiful  and  suflering  son.  Wild  and-adventm-ous,  and  foiling 
to  obtain  his  mother's  consent,  he  had  gone  to  the  war  with- 
out it,  changing  his  name,  and  enlisting  in  a  regiment  of  a 
distant  State.  He  had  taken  care  that  none  of  his  early 
friends  should  know  where  he  was,  and  he  knew  little  of 
them.  He  had  in  some  way  heard  that  his  mother  was 
dead,  and  he  feared  that  his  own  misconduct  had  broken 
her  heart. 

Thank  God  that  in  his  mercy  this  bitterness  was  spared 
from  his  cup !  His  mother  still  lived,  still  loved  him  as  of  old. 
He  would  write  to  her,  would  tell  her  all,  all  his  sins,  his 
sorrows, — would  usk  her  ftjrgiveness,  her  blessing.  He  kissed 
his  mother's  letter,  read  it  again,  and  then  hfted  up  his  heart 
to  God,  the  first  time  f(jr  long  years. 

He  sought  tlie  soldier  to  whom  had  fallen  his  mother's 
BOcks,  offering  his  own  and  money  for  them.  "  Then  it  was 
your  mother  that  knit  them,  was  it  ?  "  questioned  the  rough 
soldier  when  he  heard  the  strong  desire  of  "Boy  George" 
to  obtain  them.  "  Well,  you  shall  have  them :  give  me  your 
duds,  and  take  them." 

How  precious  those  socks  seemed  to  him !  Every  stitch 
wrought  by  his  mother's  kind  hand ;  and  with  every  stitch 
a  sigh  heaved  or  a  prayer  breathed.  He  seemed  to  hear  the 
sighs  and  prayers;  he  held  the  socks  in  his  hand,  and 
dropped  tear  after  tear  upon  them,  until  his  heart  was  moved, 
and  so  softened,  that  lie  fell  ujion  his  knees,  as  he  had  not 
done  since  he  was  a  child,  and  prayed,  "God  forgive  ine!" 

It  was  brond  daylight,  and  no  work  to  be  done  in  the? 
house,  when  AVidow  Randall  dropped  her  knittinsj-work  just 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  161 

as  slie  was  binding  off  the  heel,  never  taking  care  to  fasten 
her  needles, — and  letting  her  ball  roll  on  the  floor.  One  of 
her  neighbors  had  brought  her  a  letter  which  he  said  "  had 
come  from  the  war,"  and  he  "  mistrusted  that  it  might  be  from 
John,  or  might  tell  something  about  him."  No  wonder,  then 
that  the  mother  dropped  her  needles  quickly  and  forgot  hei 
ball.     News  from  John  !   John  alive  ! 

She  read,  "  Dear  Mother — How  shall  I  write  you !  I  am 
alive,  but  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  never  hear  you  speak 
'  my  forgiveness.  I  am  mortally  wounded,  and  have  not  long 
to  live.  The  socks  with  your  note  in  them  came  just  before 
the  battle.  They  broke  me  all  up,  and  sent  me  to  my  knees 
before  God.  Bless  you,  mother,  that  you  never  forgot  me, 
never  forgot  to  pray  for  me  ;  and  it  is  yourprayers  that  have 
led  me  to  pray  at  last.  How  I  have  mourned  for  you,  mb' 
ther !  I  heard  you  were  dead,  and  feared  it  was  my  unkind- 
ness  that  caused  your  death.  May  God  and  you  both  forgive 
your  repentant  and  dying  son." 

The  full  fountain  so  long  sealed  is  at  last  opened.  The 
eyes  that  hat'e  not  wept  for  many  a  year  weep  now.  Joy, 
grief,  which  is  uppermost?  Which  is  strongest?  Widow 
Randall  kinjws  that  she  is  childless,  but  she  knows  that  her 
son  died  repentant  and  prayerful.  She  knows,  too,  that  her 
labor  has  not  been  in  vain  in  the  Lord ;  not  in  vain  the  bread 
cast  on  the  wide  waters;  not  in  vain  her  hope,  and  patience, 
and  prayer.  Never,  never  is  prayer  in  vain  when  prompted 
by  love,  and  winged  by  faith. 


JOHN  GILPIN.— CowPER. 


John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen  of  credit  and  renown  ; 

A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he,  of  famous  London  town. 

J(jhn  (iiloin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear,  "Though  wedded  wo 

haveljeen 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we  no  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding-dav,  and  we  shall  then  repair 
Unto  the  liell  at  KdmoiiWMi,  all  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 


152  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

My  sister  and  my  sister's  child,  myself  and  children  three, 
Will  till  the  chaise ;  so  you  niuiit  ride  on  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "  I  do  admire,  of  womankind,  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear,  therefore  it  shall  be  done. 
I  am  a  linen-draper  bold,  as  all  the  world  doth  know ; 
And  my  good  friend,  the  calender,  will  lend  his  horse  to 
go." 

Quoth  ]Mrs.  Gilpin,  "  That's  well  said ;    and,  for  that  wine  is 

dear. 
We   will  be   furnished  with  our  own,  which  is  both  bright 

and  clear." 
John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife ;  o'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent,  she  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought,  but  yet  was  not 

allowed 
To   drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all  should  say  that  she  was 

proud. 
So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed,  where  they  did  all 

get  in,— 
Six  precious  souls,— and  all  agog  to  dash  through  thick  and 

thin! 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels ;    were  never 

folks  so  glad  ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath,  as  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 
John  Gilpin,  at  his  horse's  side,  seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride,  but  soon  came  down  again : 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he,  his  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw  three  customers  come 

in. 
So  down  he  came ;  for  loss  of  time,  although  it  grieved  him 

sore. 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew,  would  trouble  him 

much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers  were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs,  "  The  wine  is  left 

behind!" 
"  Good  lack !  "  quoth  he ;    yet  bring  it  me,  my  leathern  belt 

likewise, 
In  which  I  wear  my  trusty  sword,  when  I  do  exercise. 

Now  Mrs.  Gilpin  (careful  soul!)  had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved,  and  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  153 

Each  V)ottle  had  a  curling  ear,  through  which  the  belt  he 

drew  ; 
And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side,  to  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be  equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat,  he  manfully  did 

throw. 
Now  see  him  mounted  once  again  upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones  with  caution  and  good 

heed: 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road  beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot,  which  galled  him  in  his 

seat. 
"  So !  fair  and  softly !  "  John  he  cried ;   but  John  he  cried  in 

vain ; 
The  trot  became  a  gallop  soon,  in  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So,  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must,  who  cannot  sit  upright. 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands,  and  eke  with  all 

his  might. 
His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort  had  handled  been  before, 
VVliat  thing  upon  his  back  had  got,  did  wonder  more  and 

more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught ;  away  went  hat  and  wig: 
He  little  dreamed,  when  he  set  out,  of  running  such  a  rig. 
The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  tly,  like  streamer  long  and 

Till,  loop  and  button  tailing  both,  at  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  peo])le  well  discern  the  bottles  he  had  slung; 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side,  as  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed,  up  flew  the  win- 
dows all, 

And  every  soul  cried  out  "  Well  done !  "  as  loud  as  he  could 
bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  who  but  he !  his  fame  soon  spread  around, 
"  He  carries  weight !     He  rides  a  race !     'Tis  for  a  thousand 

pound ! " 
And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near,  'twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men  their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down  his  reeking  head  full 

low. 
The  bottles  twain,  behind  his  back,  were  shattered  at  li 

blow. 

55* 


154  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road,  most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  tianks  to  smoke,  as  they  had  basted 
been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight,  with  leather  girdle  braced ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks  still  dangling  at  his  waist. 
Thus  all  through  merry  Islington  these  gambols  he  did  play. 
And  till  he  came  unto  the  Wash  of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about  on  both  sides  of  the 

way. 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling-mop,  or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 
At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife,  from  the  balcony,  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much  to  see  how  he  did 

ride. 

"  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin !  here's  the  house ! "  they  all  aloud 

did  cry ; 
"The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired!"      Said  Gilpin,  "  So 

am  I ! " 
But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit  inclined  to  tarry  there ; 
For  why?  his  owner  had  a  house,  full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew,  shot  by  an  archer  strong, 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to  the  middle  of  my  song. 
Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath,  and  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at    his  friend  the   calender's  his  horse  at  last  stood 
still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see  his  friend  in  such  a  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate,  and  thus  accosted  him: 
"  What  news?  What  news?  Your  tidings  tell !  Tell  me  you 

must  and  shall ! 
Say,  why  bare-headed  you  are  come  ?    or  why  you  come  at 

all?"" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit,  and  loved  a  timely  joke ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender,  in  merry  guise,  he  spoke ; 
"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come ;  and,  if  I  well  fore- 
bode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here ;  they  are  upon  the  road !" 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find  his  friend  in  merry  pin,. 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word,  but  to  the  house  went  in  ; 
Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig, — a  wig  that 

flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear,  —  each  comely  in  its 

kind. 


NUMBKR    SEVEN.  155 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn  thus  showed  his  ready 

M'it, — 
"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours :    they,  therefore,  needs 

must  tit. 
But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away  that  hangs  upon  your  face ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may  be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding-day,  and  all  the  worid  would 

stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton  and  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 
So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said,   "I  am  in  haste  to  dine: 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  liere ;  you  shall  go  back  for 


Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast !    for  which  he  paid 

full  dear ; 
For  while   he  spake  a  braying  ass  did  sing  most  loud  and 

clear ; 
U'hereat  his  horse  did  snort  as  he  had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might,  as  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away  went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; — for  why  ? — they  were  too 

big. 
Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw  her  husband  posting 

down 
Into  the  country  far  away,  she  pulled  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said,  that  drove  them  to  the 

Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back  my  husband  safe 

and  well." 
The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet  John  coming  back 

amain. 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop,  by  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant,  and  gladly  would  have 

done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more,  and  made  him  faster 

run. 
Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away  went  p()stl)oy  at  liis  heels; 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss  the  lumbering  of  the 

wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road,  thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
Willi  j»ostl)oy  scam|)ering  in  the  rear,  they  rai.sed  the  hue 
and  cry : 


156  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Stop  thief!  Stop  thief !— a  highwayman !— not  one  of  them 
was  mute, 

And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way  did  join  in  the  pur- 
suit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again  flew  open  in  short  space, 
The  tollmen  thinking,  as  before,  that  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 
And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too,  for  he  got  first  to  town, 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up  he  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing*"  long  live  the  king,"  and  Gilpin,  long  live 

he, 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad  may  I  be  there  to  see. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS.— J.  G.  Peecival. 

Here  rest  the  great  and  good.    Here  they  repose 
After  their  generous  toil.    A  sacred  band. 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 
Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 
And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 
Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre — green  sods 
Are  all  their  nKjnument,  and  yet  it  tells 
A  nobler  history  than  iiillared  piles, 
Or  the  eternal  pyramids. 

They  need 
No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 
Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them ;  and  the  joy 
With  whi(;h  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 
That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 
That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 
That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued — these,  though  muto 
As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  times 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves  ;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  Liberty.    No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame. 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 
No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  157 

In  all  its  greatness.    It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
"Where  tirst  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 
Broken  and  cowed.     Let  these  green  ehns  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 

Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 
While  we  are  like  them,  siniple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshiping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.    They  need 
No  column  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.    The  heart  itself. 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes. 

Let  these  elms 
Bend  their  protecting  shadow  o'er  tht'ir  graves, 
And  build  with  their  green  roof  the  only  fane, 
Where  we  may  gatlier  on  the  hallowed  day 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet,  and  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  Sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears — here  let  us  strew  the  sod     • 
AVith  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty  Nature  gives. 
And  they  have  rendered  ours — perpetually. 


DICKENS  IN  CA]MP.— Bket  IIarte. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

Tiie  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  licalth 
On  haggard  face  and  form  fliat  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  vfilumc  dn-w, 
And  (ards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure, 

To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

XX* 


158  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  tlien,  while  ronnd  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  tirehght  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy,- — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all, — 
But,  as  he  resd,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray. 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell,"  on  English  meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  si)ell  divine — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  th£  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire : 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell? — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine. 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE.— Henry  Abbey. 

There  lived  in  France,  in  days  not  long  now  dead, 
A  farmer's  sons,  twin  brothers,  like  in  face ; 

And  one  was  taken  in  the  other's  stead 

For  a  small  theft,  and  sentenced  in  disgrace 

To  serve  for  years  a  hated  galley-slave, 

Yet  said  no  word  his  prized  good  name  to  save. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  159 

Trusting  remoter  days  would  be  more  blessed, 

He  set  his  will  to  wear  the  verdict  out, 
And  knew  most  men  are  prisoners  at  best 

Who  some  strong  habit  ever  drag  about, 
Like  chain  and  ball ;  then  meekly  prayed  that  he 
Rather  the  prisoner  he  was  should  be. 

But  best  resolves  are  of  such  feeble  thread, 
They  may  be  broken  in  Temptation's  hands. 

After  long  toil  the  guiltless  prisoner  said  : 
"  Why  should  I  thus,  and  feel  life's  precioios  sands 

The  narrow  of  my  glass,  the  present,  run. 

For  a  poor  crime  that  I  have  never  done  ?  " 

Such  questions  are  like  cups,  and  hold  reply ; 

For  when  the  chance  swung  wade  the  prisoner  fled, 
And  gained  the  country  road,  and  hastened  by 

Brown  furrowed  fields  and  skipping  brooklets  fed 
By  shepherd  clouds,  and  felt  'neath  sapful  trees, 
The  soft  hand  of  the  mesmerizing  breeze. 


'o 


Then,  all  that  long  day  having  eaten  naught. 
He  at  a  cottage  stopped,  and  of  the  wife 

A  brimming  bowl  of  fragrant  milk  besought. 
She  gave  it  him  ;  but  as  he  quatfed  the  life, 

Down  her  kind  face  he  saw  a  single  tear 

Pursue  its  wet  and  sorrowful  career. 

"Within  the  cot  he  now  beheld  a  man 

And  maiden  also  weeping.    "  Speak,"  said  he. 

And  tell  me  of  your  grief;  for  if  I  can, 
I  will  disroot  the  sad  tear-fruited  tree." 

The  cotter  answered :  "  In  default  of  rent  ■ 

We  shall  to-morrow  from  this  roof  be  sent." 

Then  said  the  galley-slave :  "  Wlioso  returns 

A  prisoner  escaped  may  feel  the  spur 
To  a  right  action,  and  deserves  and  earns 
Prol'ered  reward.     I  am  a  prisoner! 
Bind  these  my  arms,  and  drive  me  back  my  way, 
That  your  reward  the  price  of  home  may  pay." 

Against  his  wish  the  cotter  gave  consent. 
And  at  the  jirison-gate  recciv<'d  his  fee, 

Though  some  made  it  a  tiling  for  wonderment 
Tliat  one  so  sickly  and  infirm  as  he, 

When  stronger  would  liavc  dared  not  to  attack, 

Could  capture  tliis  bold  youth  and  bring  him  back. 


160  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Straightway  the  cotter  to  the  mayor  hied 
And  told  him  all  the  story,  and  that  lord 

Was  much  affected,  dropping  gold  beside 
The  pursed  sufficient  silver  of  reward ; 

Then  wrote  his  letter  in  authority, 

Asking  to  set  the  noble  prisoner  free. 

There  is  no  nobler,  better  life  on  earth 
Than  that  of  conscious,  meek  self-sacrifice. 

Such  life  our  Saviour,  in  his  lowly  birth 
And  holy  work,  made  his  sublime  disguise, 

Teaching  this  truth,  still  rarely  understood : 

'Tis  sweet  to  suffer  for  another's  good. 


SPEECH  BY  OBADIAH  PARTINGTON  SWIPES. 

Fellow  Citizen's  : — We  have  met  here  to  investigate  the 
ethereal  contaminations  of  this  terraqueous  government  of 
the  firmament  below.  We  may  elucidate  the  praises  of  the 
invisible  Scott,  who  has  fought  with  wise  and  deleterious 
conflagration  over  the  plains  of  Mexico,  through  Behring's 
straits  to  Hudson's  bay.  And  let  me  tell  you,  that  the  names 
of  the  invincible  Modoc,  and  the  oleaginous  Chinaman,  shall 
travel  down  to  receding  generations,  gloriously  enrolled  on 
the  records  of  perpetuity  and  glory.  Yes,  they  shall  live  on, 
and  shine  on,  when  the  Columbian  principles  of  Hale  and 
Juhen  shall'be  disembogued  into  the  unforgotten  regions  of 
ambiguous  fame. 

But  I  have  been  accused  of  going  for  the  sub-treasury  and 
the  "  back  pay  "bill.  Now,  that's  a  whopper !  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  come  down  upon  that  base  calumniator  of  inno- 
cence and  beauty,  like  a  thousand  of  brick !  I'll  hurl  at  him 
the  gauntlet  of  egotism  and  pomposity,  through  the  innu- 
merable regions  of  Mozambique  and  Santa  Fe  de  Bogota ; 
and  rush  down  on  him  like  an  avflanche  on  the  plains  of  De 
Laplata,  before  I'll  stand  the  charge !  The  sub-treasury 
means  to  watch  the  money.  Now  I  say  one  man  is  enough 
to  watch  our  money.  I  had  rather  have  one  man  to  watch 
my  money,  my   life,  and  my  country,  too,  than  to  have  a 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  IGl 

thousand,  because  Homer,  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  flour- 
ished iu  umbrageous  England,  says,  in  beautiful  ambidexter, 
Latin  verse —  , 

"  He  that  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash." 

But  about  our  eternal  improvements.  What,  in  the  name 
of  the  invisible  Jackson,  do  we  want  to  make  so  many  rail- 
roads and  canals  for  ?  What  do  we  want  any  more  water  for 
in  these  United  States  ?  We  have  got  water  enough.  The 
water  in  canals  ain't  good  for  nothing  but  to  float  boats  in, 
the  best  way  you  can  fix  it.  They  want  to  go  on  making 
railroads  and  canals,  until  our  country  shall  equal  in  mag- 
nanimity the  great  and  philosophic  Pacific  ocean. 

And  now,  to  conclude,  fellow-citizens,  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  memory  of  the  whig  and  democ;ratic  democracy  of  our 
great  republican  constitution,  shall  be  hung  upon  a  star  and 
shine  forever  in  odoriferous  amalgamation  in  the  terraqueous 
firmament  on  high,  in  one  eternal  bustification ! 


OLD  CHUMS.— Alice  Gary. 


Is  it  you,  Jack  ?    Old  boy,  is  it  really  you  ? 

I  shouldn't  have  known  you  but  that  I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected ;— pray,  how  do  you  do? 

But  what,  under  heaven,  has  made  you  so  old? 

Your  hair  !  why,  you've  only  a  little  gray  fuzz! 

And  your  beard's  white !  but  that  can  be  beautifullv  dyed; 
And  your  legs  aren't  but  just  half  as  long  as  they  was; 

And  then — stars  and  garters !  your  vest  is  so  wide ! 

Is  this  your  hand?    Lord,  how  I  envied  you  that 
In  the  time  of  our  courting,— so  soft,  and  so  small, 

And  now  it  is  callous  inside,  and  so  fat, — 
Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce,  that  is  all. 

Turn  round  !  let  me  look  at  you!  isn't  it  odd. 

How  strung(!  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's  chum  grows  I 

Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  h'ke  a  bean  in  a  pod. 
And  wliat  are  these  lines  branching  out  from  your  nose? 


162  ONB    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS     . 

Your  back  has  gone  up  and  your  shoulders  gone  down, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the  plough  ; 

Why,  Jack,  if  we'd  lyippened  to  meet  about  town, 
I  wouldn't  have  known  you  from  Adam,  I  vow ! 

You've  had  trouble,  have  you  ?  I'm  sorry ;  but,  John, 
All  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time  of  life. 

How's  Billy,  my  namesake  ?    You  don't  say  he's  gone 
To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have  buried  your  wife? 

Poor  Katherine  !  so  she  has  left  you, — ah  me  ! 

I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  lifty,  or  more. 
What  is  it  you  tell  me  ?    She  ims  fifty-three ! 

Oh  no,  Jack  !  she  wasn't  so  much  by  a  score ! 

Well,  there's  little  Katy, — was  that  her  name,  John  ? 

She'll  rule  your  house  one  of  these  days  like  a  queen. 
That  baby !  good  Lord  !  is  she  married  and  gone  ? 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old !  and  a  Katy  fourteen ! 

Then  I  give  it  up !     ^Yhv,  you're  younger  than  I 

By  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  to  think  you've  come  back 

A  sober  old  graybeard,  just  ready  to  die ! 
I  don't  understand  how  it  is, — do  you.  Jack  ? 

I've  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and  bright ; 

Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning  to  hint ; 
But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  and  a  light 

'Twixt  them  and  the  page,  I  can  read  any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more  spare. 
Perhaps,  than  it  was  when  I  beat  you  at  ball; 

My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a  stair, — 
But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  nothing  at  aU! 

My  hair  is  just  turning  a  little,  you  see, 

And  lately  I've  put  on  a  broader-brimmed  hat 

Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you  will  agree, 
Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for  that. 

I'm  sometimes  a  little  rheumatic,  'tis  true. 

And  my  nose  isn't  quite  on  a  straight  line,  they  say ; 

For  all  that,  I  don't  think  I've  changed  much,  do  you? 
And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older,  Jack,  not  a  day. 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  163 


SOWING  AND  HARVESTING. 

There  is  nothing  more  trne  than  that  "  wliatsoever  a  man 
soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap  ; "  and  we  have  abundant 
proof,  in  the  e very-day  experience  of  life,  that  "  he  that 
sowetli  iniquity  shall  reap  iniquity  ; "  that  "  they  that  plow 
iniquity,  and  sow  wickedness,  shall  reap  the  same  ; "  and 
that  those  who  have  "sown  the  wind  shall  reajj  the  whirl- 
wind." And  then,  again,  we  have  tlie  comforting  assurance 
that  if  we  "  be  not  weary  in  well-doing,  in  due  season  we 
shall  reap,  if  we  faint  not ; "  and  that  "  to  him  that  soweth 
righteousness  shall  be  a  sure  reward."  These  are  metaphors 
in  which  all  men  are  described  as  husbandmen,  sowing  the 
seeds  for  the  harvest,  and  reaping  the  fruits  thereof. 

They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  daylight  fair, 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  noonday  glare, 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  soft  twilight, 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  solemn  night; 
What  shall  their  harvest  be? 

Some  are  so'wang  their  seed  of  pleasant  thought ; 
In  the  spring's  green  light  they  have  blithely  wrought ; 
They  have  brought  their  fancies  from  wood  and  dell, 
Where  the  mosses  creep,  and  the  flower-buds  swell  -^ 
Rare  shall  the  harvest  be ! 

Some  are  sowing  the  seeds  of  word  and  deed. 
Which  the  cold  know  not,  nor  the  careless  heed,- 
Of  the  gentle  word  and  the  kindest  deed 
That  have  blessed  the  heart  in  its  so-rest  need  : 
Sweet  shall  the  harvest  be! 

And  some  are  sowing  the  seeds  of  pain, 
Of  late  remorse,  and  in  maddened  brain ; 
And  the  stars  shall  fall,  and  the  sun  shall  wane, 
Ere  they  root  the  woods  from  the  soil  again: 
Dark  will  the  harvest  be! 

And  some  are  standing  with  idle  hand, 
Yet  they  scatter  seeds  on  their  native  land; 
And  some  are  sowing  the  seeds  of  care, 
Which  their  soil  has  borne,  and  still  must  bear; 
Sad  will  the  harvest  be ! 

And  each,  in  his  way,  is  sowing  the  seed 
Of  good  or  of  evil,  in  word  or  deed: 


164  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICB    SELBCTI0N3 

With  a  careless  hand  o'er  the  earth  they  sow, 
And  the  fields  are  ripening  where'er  they  go ; 
What  shall  the  harvest  be  ? 

Sown  in  darkness,  or  sown  in  light, — 
Sown  in  weakness,  or  sown  in  might, — 
Sown  in  meekness,  or  sown  in  wrath, — 
In  the  broad  work-field,  or  the  shadowy  path,- 
SuRE  will  the  harvest  be ! 


LIFE'S  B4TTLE.— An  Oration. 

"  Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ; 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers. 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

"  Life  is  real !  life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal. 
'  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,' 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul." 

The  course  of  things  belo  «'  is  not  a  relentless  fate.  Man*s 
will  is  unconquerable,  and  bj  it  he  is  maker  and  lord  of  his 
destiny  ;  by  it,  relying  on  Eternal  Power  and  his  own  fiery 
energies,  he  can  build  a  monument  of  greatness  reaching  to 
the  very  heavens ;  by  it,  allowing  those  faculties  with  which 
he  is  so  richly  endowed,  to  lie  dormant  in  him,  and  follow- 
ing the  low  instincts  of  nature,  he  may  plunge  to  the  very 
depths  of  perdition. 

Yet  it  was  never  a  part  of  the  Divine  plan  that  he  should 
go  down  in  ignorance  and  guilt  to  the  darkness  of  eternal 
night ;  existence  never  was  given  him  that  he  might  degrade 
it ;  else  why  these  high  and  holy  aspirations,— these  long^ 
ings  after  immortality,— these  shrinkings  from  that  which  ia 
unseen  and  unknown  which  pervade  the  soul  even  when 
clothed  in  the  habi/iments  of  vice? 

"  Mighty  of  heart  i:nd  mighty  of  mind,"  pure  as  the  angela 
and  only  a  little  lower  was  he  when  in  the  morn  of  creatiou 
the  beauties  of  Eden  first  burst  upon  his  wondering  vision, 
"  ere  the  serpent  had  accomplished  his  deadly  work  and  the 
tree  of  knowledge  yielded  its  fatal  gift."  "  Mighty  of  heart 
and   mighty  of  mind,"  impure  and  fallen  was  he  when  the 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  ]f55 

flaming  swords  of  the  angel  sentries  forever  barred  his  ap- 
proach to  the  tree  of  hfe,  "  Lest,"  said  the  great  I  Am,  "  since 
he  has  become  as  one  of  us  to  discern  good  and  evil,  he  put 
forth  his  hand  and  take  of  its  fruit  and  live  forever."  In 
that  bitter  hour,  when  the  gates  of  Paradise  were  closed 
against  him,  and  the  earth  became  accursed  for  his  sake 
when  the  fiat  of  Jehovah  went  forth  condemning  him  to 
toil  and  pain  and  death,  whatever  else  was  taken,  the  privi- 
lege of  glorifying  anew  his  ruined  manhood,  of  doing  noble 
and  true  things,  and  vindicating  himself  as  a  God-made  man 
was  not  denied  him. 

There  is  still  within  him  the  upspringing  of  lofty  senti- 
ment which  contributes  to  his  elevation,  and  though  there 
are  obstacles  to  be  surmounted  and  difficulties  to  be  van- 
quished, yet  with  truth  for  his  watchword,  and  leaning  on 
his  own  noble  purposes  and  indefatigable  exertions,  he  may 
crown  his  brow  with  imperishable  honors.  He  may  never 
wear  the  warrior's  crimson  wreath,  the  poet's  chaplet  of  bays, 
or  the  statesman's  laurels ;  though  no  grand  universal  truth 
may  at  his  bidding  stand  confessed  to' the  world, — though  it 
may  never  be  his  to  bring  to  a  successful  issue  a  great  polit- 
ical revolution — to  be  the  founder  of  a  republic  whose  name 
shall  be  a  "  distinguished  star  in  the  constellation  of  nations," 
— yea,  more,  though  his  name  may  never  be  heard  beyond 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  own  neighborhood,  yet  is  his  mis- 
sion none  the  less  a  high  and  holy  one. 

In  the  moral  and  physical  world,  not  only  the  field  of  bat- 
tle, but  also  the  consecrated  cause  of  truth  and  virtue  calls 
for  champions,  and  the  field  for  doing  good  is  "  white  unto 
the  harvest ; "  and  if  he  enlists  in  the  ranks,  and  his  spirit 
faints  not,  he  may  write  his  name  among  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Then  trust  thyself,  O  man  !  "  Every  heart  vibrates  to  that 
iron  string."  Accept  thy  place  in  the  ranks  and  throw  thy- 
self boldly  into  the  battle  tumult  of  the  world.  The  chief 
of  men  is  he  who  stands  in  the  van,  fronting  the  peril  which 
frightens  all  others  back. 

Set  thy  ideal  standard  high ;  go  on  from  strength  to 
Btrength,  ever  upward,  onward  ;  asj)ire  to  noble  acts,  heroic 
work,  and  true  heart-utterance,  and  thy  deeds  shall  rise  up 
melodiously  in  a  boundless,  everlasting  Psalm  of  Triumph  1 


16Q  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


SONG  OF  SARATOGA— John  G.  Saxe. 


"  Pray  what  do  they  do  at  the  Springs  ?  " 

The  question  is  easy  to  ask : 
But  to  answer  it  fully,  my  dear, 

Were  rather  a  serious  task. 
And  yet,  in  a  bantering  way,  ^    . 

As  the  magpie  or  mocking-bird  sings, 
I'll  venture  a  bit  of  a  song, 

To  tell  what  they  do  at  the  Springs. 

Imprimis,  my  darling,  they  drink 

The  waters  so  sparkling  and  clear; 
Though  the  flavor  is  none  of  the  best, 

And  the  odor  exceedingly  queer ;      , 
But  the  fluid  is  mingled,  you  know, 

With  wholesome,  medicinal  things ; 
So  they  drink,  and  they  drink,  and  they  drink,- 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 

Then  with  appetites  keen  as  a  knife, 

They  hasten  to  breakfast,  or  dine ; 
The  latter  precisely  at  three. 

The  former  from  seven  till  nine. 
Ye  gods!  what  a  rustle  and  rush, 

When  the  eloquent  dinner-bell  rings! 
Then  they  eat,  and  they  eat,  and  they  eat, — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 

Now  they  stroll  in  the  beautiful  walks, 

Or  loll  in  the  shade  of  the  trees ; 
Where  many  a  whisper  is  heard 

That  never  is  heard  by  the  breeze ; 
And  hands  are  commingled  with  hands, 

Regardless  of  conjugal  rings : 
And  they  flirt,  and  they  flirt,  and  they  flirt,^ 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 

The  drawing-rooms  now  are  ablaze, 

And  music  is  shrieking  away ; 
Terpsichore  governs  the  hour, 

And  fashion  was  never  so  gay ! 
An  arm  round  a  tapering  waist, — 

How  closely  and  fondly  it  clings ! 
So  they  waltz,  and  they  waltz,  and  they  waltz, — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  IGV 

In  short, — as  it  goes  in  the  world, — 

They  eat,  and  they  drink,  and  they  sleep ; 
They  talk,  and  they  walk,  and  they  woo  ; 

They  sigh,  and  they  laugh,  and  they  weep; 
They  read,  and  they  ride,  and  they  dance ; 

(With  other  remarkahle  things:) 
They  pray,  and  they  play,  and  they  pay, — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 


AGONY  EELLS- Allie  Wellington. 


It  was  formerly  a  custom  in  the  Roman  Catholic  church  to  commencp  a  sol- 
emn toll  of  bells, — called  "  Agouy-bells," — when  any  one  connected  with  the 
church  was  supposed  to  be  dying. 

Somebody's  dying  to-night !    Alas  I 

Hear  ye  those  agony-bells. 
Solemnly,  mournfully  break  on  the  air, — 

The  saddest  of  all  sad  knells ; 
From  yon  high  tower  they  downward  float, 

Like  a  voice  from  the  far-off  heaven. 
To  some  soul,  'tis  the  last  of  earth. 

And  its  tenderest  ties  are  being  riven, — 
Somebody's  dying ! 

Is  it  childhood,  lovelj^  and  pure, 

Whose  spirit  is  cleaving  this  midnight  air? 
Is  it  youth,  in  the  flush  of  hope, 

With  its  dreams  of  the  future  radiant  and  fair? 
Or  is  it  manhood,  strong  and  braA>e, 

That's  fallen  in  th'  noontide  strife? 
Or  age  bowed  down  with  th'  weight  of  years, — 

Treading  the  twilight  paths  of  life? 
Somebody's  dying ! 

It  mav  be  a  mother — a  father — a  child — 

A  sister — a  brother — a  maiden  fair; 
It  may  be  a  homeless,  friendless  one, — 

A  stranger,  fur  from  love's  tender  care  1 
Whoe'er  it  be, — was  the  solemn  call 

Welcomed?  or  greeted  with  startling  fears? 
Was  tlieir  mission  accompiislied,— their  life-work  don<!  7 

Are  they  angel-voirrs  the  spirit  hears? 
Somebody's  dying ! 


168  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

There  are  other  deaths, — there  are  other  graves, 

Than  those  spread  o'er  by  the  grassy  mound; 
There  are  other  mourners  than  sable  clad, 

And  sepulchres  else  than  on  earth  are  found. 
There  are  souls  that  to  darkness  and  death  go  down, 

Whose  corridors  echo  reproachful  knells; 
There  are  friendships  that  languish  and  hopes  that  expire, 

And  hearts  that  e'er  list  their  own  agony-bells, — 
Forever  dying ! 


AS  "  OLD  GILES  "  SAW  IT.— D.  S.  Cohen. 

Ay,  lad,  look  on  yon  ocean,  now,  you  see  it's  calm  and  still ; 

You  wouldn't  think  its  waves  could  rise, 

An'  seem  to  meet  the  peaceful  skies ; 

An'  take  a  ship  of  giant  size, 
To  dash  it  at  their  will. 

I've  lived  near  ocean  all  my  life,  nigh  on  to  eighty  years ; 

I've  seen  the  cruel  billows  leajj 

O'er  many  a  strugglin'  ship,  an'  heap 

Their  deadly  weight,  an'  to  the  dee^i 
Drag  earthly  hopes  an'  fears. 

I've  seen  staunch  oak  to  splinters  struck,  an'  seen  the  drown- 
in'  fight ; 

Their  cry  for  help  has  reached  my  ear, 

When  willin'  help  could  not  get  near ; 

An'  then  I've  hid  my  eyes  in  fear, — 
They've  vanished  from  my  sight. 

There's  one  sight  as  I  seed,  lad,  and  I  wish  I  never  had ; 

I've  lived  nigh  on  to  eighty  years. 

Thro'  all  my  share  o'  woe  an'  tears. 

But  never  did  these  eyes  an'  ears 
Meet  anythin'  so  sad. 

It  were  a  couple  come  down  here,  near  'bout  the  close  o' 
Spring ; 

Wi'  birbes— a  sturdy  chap  o'  three, 

An'  girl,  as  many  months  might  be ; — 

It  shows  how  wise  'tis  folks  can't  see 
What  comin'  moments  bring. 


I 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  16& 

They  took  that  Uttle  cot— yon,  there ;  you  see  the  roof  from 
here ; 

It  stands  upon  a  kind  o'  ledge, 

As  overlooks  the  ocean's  edge, 

An'  close  up  to  it  grows  the  sedge, — 
Too  dangerously  near. 

They  liked  it  'cause  they  thought  they'd  get  such  healthy, 
brarin'  air ; 

He  made  a  palace  o'  the  cot, 

An'  bought  a  jaunty  little  yacht,  . 

That  fancy  kind,  \vi'  which  you've  got 
To  take  the  weather  fair. 

He  went  out  sailin'  in  the  yacht, — well,  e'enmost  ev'ry  day; 
Sometimes  she'd  go,  an'  sometimes  bide; 
The  boy  were  alius  at  his  side, 
'Twere  plain  he  were  his  father's  pride, — 

His  very  heart's  sun-ray. 

They  had  a  set  o'  signal  flags,  o'  silk,  an'  made  by  her ; 

An'  on  the  yacht  a  little  gun, 

He'd  fire  oft',  an'  uj)  they'd  run 

Their  colors,  an'  enjoy  the  fun 
Like  children,  which  they  were. 

I  guess  they'd   lived  here  'bout  three  month,  or  maybe  't 
might  1)6  more ; 

'Twere  long  enough  for  folk  to  find 

How  good  an'  true  they  were,  an'  kind; 

Bes'  liked — an'  by  as  poor  folk,  mind — 
O'  all  along  the  shore. 

It  were  a  hot  an'  heav>^  day,  barely  a  touch  o'  breeze ; 

One  ii'  tlie  days  wi'  l:)li)()d-red  sun. 

As  makes  you  fliink  the  world's  begun 

To  scorch,  an'  judge  'twould  be  rare  fun 
To  sail  due  North — an'  freeze. 

He  went  out  early  in  the  yacht — I  seed  him  put  away — 
I  stood  upon  the  beach  the  while. 
He  noddi'd,  wi'  a  j)loasaiit  smile; 
^Tlic  little  fell<,wsai<l,  "or  Gile, 
We  goin'  to  lish  to-day." 

'Bout  four  o'clock  the  storm  come  up — I'd  felt  it  sure  .since 
noon — 

An'  round  about  the  cot  I  stayed. 

For  trutli  I  felt  a  bit  afraid; 

An'  all  the  arternoon  I  prayed 
It  wouldn't  come  so  soon. 

66 


170  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SKLKCTIONS 

An'  what  a  stortii !    the  billows  raged — a  storm,  too,  in  the 
skies — 

The  sea  wind  blew  wi'  might  an'  main,  ' 

Well,  fact,  e'enmost  a  hurricane ; 

The  thunder  roared,  an'  flashed  again 
The  lightnin'  in  our  eyes. 

Oh !  lad,  the  terror  in  the  cot  my  tongue  can  ne'er  relate ; 

Wi'  glass  in  hand  she  scanned  the  shore, — 

I  tell  you,  lad,  it  grieved  ma  sore, 

I  couldn't  hope  to  see  'em  more, 
1  couldn't  doubt  their  fate. 

But  soon  she  thought  she  saw  the  yacht,  a  speck  upon  the 
wave, 

A  little  more — an'  she  could  tell ; 

It  were — the  signal  waved,  "All's  well," 

An'  on  her  knees  she  prayerful  fell — 
"  O  God !  my  dear  ones  save ! " 

The  storm  waxed  high,  the  billows  rose  like  monsters  in  hot 
wrath ; 
The  air  wi'  heavy  vapors  teemed ; 
We  saw%  as  bright  the  lightnin'  gleamed, 
The  yacht,  as  through  the  waves  she  seemed 

To  cut  hersel'  a  path. 

As  fixed  we  gazed,  wi'  beatin'  hearts,  the  air  grew  bright  a 
spell ; 
The  little  yacht  kep'  bravely  on, 
An'  faintly  then  we  heerd  the  gun. 
Thanked  God,  the  tight  seemed  nearly  won; 

The  signal  waved— "All's  well." 

Nearer  and  nearer  still  it  come,  she  seed  her  darlin'  boy, 

She  seed  her  husband,  tall  an'  fair; 

He  stood  erect,  his  head  were  bare. 

The  wind  played  wi'  his  flowin'hair, 
Her  heart  were  full  wi'  joy.        *        *        * 

Don't  mind  me,  lad— there,  look  ahead ;  you  see  yon  jagged 
rock  ? — 
They'll  put  a  safeguard  there  some  da}^, 
When  more  dear  lives  are  dashed  away ; — 
His  eyes,  I  judge,  were  blind  wi'  spray,  *" 

He  only  felt  the  shock. 

Down  like  a  stone !    I  heerd  the  scream,  the  terrible  death 
knell ;— - 

It  were  the  folk  as  stood  wi'  her — 

She  didn't  speak  and  didn't  stir; 

An'  there  above  the  water,  sir, 
The  signal  waved,  "All's  well." 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  171 

She  stood  like  dead — it  seemed  an  age  to  those  who  were 

around, — 
Although  it  may  seem  strange  to  say, 
I  b'lieve  her  soul  had  tied  its  clay, 
An'  for  the  moment  sped  away, 
To  whisper  yn'  the  drowned. 

At  las'  she  turned  ;  wi'  tearless  eye,  an'  face  like  sculptured 
stone, 

She  bade  'em  all  to  leave  the  room  ; 

Said  she,  "  We  can't  avert  God's  doom. 

He  chooses  where  shall  be  man's  tomb ; 
Pray  leave  me,  frien's,  alone." 

The  storm  now  ceased,  its  fury  spent,  the  air  were  still  once 
moi-e ; 

The  men  went  out  wi'  rope  an'  hook — 

Too  ol'  to  go,  I  stood  to  look. 

An'  all  my  limbs  a-tremblin'  shook 
To  see  her  at  her  door. 

Her  babe  lay  sleepin'  in  her  arms,  an'  stony  still  her  face ; 

I  felt  my  heart  within  me  sink — 

I  told  you  'bout  that  ledge,  I  think — 

She  walked  right  close  up  to  the  brink ; 
T  since  ha'  marked  the  place. 

I  started  to  come  near  her,  for  I  feared  o'  somethin'  ill ; 

I'd  walked  about  a  rod — nay,  less — 

When  to  her,  wi'  a  crazed  caress. 

Her  child  I  seed  her  closely  press, — 
A  plunge — an'  all  were  still. 

Well,  God  is  good !  an'  let  us  hope  that  in  his  realms  above, 

Her  anguished  mind  an'  grief  intense. 

Atone  in  mercy  her  otfence. 

An'  that  they're  joined  forever,  hence, 
[ii  constancy  an'  love. 


NOBLE  REVENGE.— Thomas  De  Quincey. 

A  young  officer  (in  what  army  no  matter)  had  so  far  for- 
gotten himself,  in  a  moment  of  irritation,  as  to  strike  a  pri- 
vate soldier,  full  of  personal  dignity  (as  sometimes  happens 
in  all  ranks),  and  distinguished  for  his  courage.  The  inex- 
orable laws  of  military  discij)line  forbade  to  the  injured  soK 


•t72  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

dier  any  practical  redress — he  could  look  for  no  retaliation 
by  acts.  Words  only  were  at  his  command,  and,  in  a  tumult 
of  indignation,  as  he  turned  away,  the  soldier  said  to  his  of' 
ficer  that  he  would  "  make  him  repent  it."  This,  wearing 
the  shape  of  a  menace,  naturally  rekindled  the  officer's  anger, 
and  intercepted  any  disposition  which  might  be  rising  with- 
in him  toward  a  sentiment  of  remorse ;  and  thus  the  irrita- 
tion between  the  two  young  men  grew  hotter  than  before. 

Some  weeks  after  this  a  partial  action  took  place  with  the 
enemy.  Suppose  yourself  a  spectator,  and  looking  down 
into  a  valley  occupied  by  the  two  armies.  They  are  facing 
each  other,  you  see,  in  martial  array.  But  it  is  no  more  than 
a  skirmish  which  is  going  on  ;  in  the  course  of  which,  how- 
ever, an  occasion  suddenly  arises  for  a  desperate  service.  A 
redoubt,  which  has  fallen  into  the  enemy's  hands,  must  be 
recaptured  at  any  price,  and  under  circumstances  of  all  but 
hopeless  difficulty. 

A  strong  party  has  volunteered  for  the  service ;  there  is  a 
cry  for  somebody  to  head  them ;  you  see  a  soldier  step  out 
from  the  ranks  to  assume  this  dangerous  leadership  ;  the 
party  moves  rapidly  forward  ;  in  a  few  minutes  it  is  swal- 
lowed up  from  your  eyes  in  clouds  of  smoke  ;  for  one  half 
hour,  from  behind  these  clouds  you  receive  hieroglyphic  re- 
ports of  bloody  strife — fierce  repeating  signals,  flashes  from 
the  guns,  rolling  musketry,  and  exulting  hurrahs  advancing 
or  receding,  slackening  or  redoubling. 

At  length  all  is  over ;  the  redoubt  has  been  recovered ; 
that  which  was  lost  is  found  again ;  the  jewel  which  had 
been  made  captive  is  ransomed  with  blood.  Crimsoned  with 
glorious  gore,  the  wreck  of  the  conquering  party  is  relieved, 
and  at  liberty  to  return.  From  the  river  you  see  it  ascend- 
ing. The  plume-crested  officer  in  command  rushes  forward, 
with  his  left  hand  raising  his  hat  in  homage  to  the  blackened 
fragments  of  what  was  once  a  flag,  whilst  with  his  right 
he  seizes  that  of  the  leader,  though  no  more  than  a  private 
from  the  ranks.  That  perplexes  you  not ;  mystery  you  see 
none  in  that.  For  distinctions  of  order  perish,  ranks  are 
confounded ;  "  high  and  low  "  are  words  without  a  meaning, 
and  to  wreck  goes  every  notion  or  feeling  that  di\ides  the 
noble  from  the  noble,  or  the  brave  man  from  the  brave. 


NUMBER    SEVEN. 


17$ 


But  wherefore  is  it  that  no^r,  when  suddenly  they  wheel 
into  mutual  recognition,  suddenly  they  pause  ?  This  soldier, 
this  officer — who  are  they?  O  reader!  once  before  they  had 
stood  face  to  face — the  soldier  that  was  struck,  the  officer 
that  struck  him.  Once  again  they  are  meeting ;  and  the 
gaze  of  armies  is  upon  them.  If  for  a  moment  a  doubt  di- 
vides them,  in  a  moment  the  doubt  has  perislied.  One 
glance  exchanged  between  them  publishes  the  forgiveness 
that  is  sealed  forever. 

As  one  who  recovers  a  brother  whom  he  has  accounted 
dead,  the  officer  sprang  forward,  threw  his  arms  around  the 
neck  of  the  soldier,  and  kissed  him,  as  if  he  were  some 
martyr  glorified  by  that  shadow  of  death  from  wliich  he 
was  returning ;  whilst,  on  his  part,  the  soldier,  stej)i)ing  back, 
and  carrying  his  open  hand  through  the  beautiful  motions 
of  the  military  salute  to  a  superior,  makes  this  immortal  an- 
swer— that  answer  which  shut  up  forever  the  memory  of  the 
indignity  offered  to  him,  even  while  for  the  last  time  allud- 
ing to  it :  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  told  you  before,  that  I  would 
make  you  repent  it." 


FRIAR  PHILIP, 

Poor  friar  Philip  lost  his  wife,  x 
The  charm  and  comfort  of  his  life. 
He  mourned  her, — not  like  modern  men. 
For  ladies  were  worth  having  then. 
The  world  was  altered  in  his  view, 
All  things  put  on  a  yellow  hue ; 
Even  ladies,  once  his  chief  delight, 
Were  now  otiensive  to  his  sight ; 
In  short,  he  pined  and  looked  so  ill, 
The  doctor  hoped  to  make  a  bill. 

At  last  he  made  a  vow  to  fly, 
And  liide  liiniself  from  every  Qye; 
Take  up  his  lodgings  in  a  wood. 
To  turn  a  hermit,  and  grow  good. 
He  had  a  son,  now  you  must  know, 
About  a  twelvemonth  old  or  so ; 


YY 


174  ONE    HUJiDBSD    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Him,  Philip  took  up  in  his  arms, 

To  snatch  him  from  all  female  charms, — 

Intending  he  should  never  know 

There  were  such  things  as  girls  below, 

But  lead  an  honest  hermit's  life, 

Lest  he,  likewise,  might  lose  his  wife. 

The  place  he  chose  for  his  retreat, 

"Was  once  a  lion's  country  seat ; 
Far  in  a  wild,  romantic  wood. 
The  hermit's  little  cottage  stood. 
Hid,  by  the  trees,  from  human  view, — 
The  sun  himself  could  scarce  get  through ; 
A  little  garden,  tilled  with  care, 
Supplied  them  with  their  daily  fare; 
Fresh  water-cresses  from  the  spring, — 
Turnips,  or  greens,  or  some  such  thing ; — 
Hermits  don't  care  much  what  they  eat, 
And  appetite  can  make  it  sweet ! 

'Twas  here  our  little  hermit  grew, — 

His  father  taught  him  all  he  knew, 

Adapting,  like  a  cheerful  sage, 

His  lessons  to  the  puinl's  age. 

At  five  years  old,  he  showed  him  flowers. 

Taught  him  their  various  names  and  powers, 

Taught  him  to  blow  upon  a  reed, 

To  say  his  prayers,  and  get  the  creed. 

At  ten,  he  lectured  him  on  herbs, 

(Better  than  learning  nouns  and  verbs,) 

The  names  and  qualities  of  trees. 

Manners  and  customs  of  the  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  oysters  full  of  pearls. 

But  not  one  word  about  the  girls. 

At  fifteen  years,  he  turned  his  eyes 

To  Anew  the  wonders  of  the  skies ; 

Called  all  the  stars  by  their  right  names, 

As  you  would  call  on  John  or  James ; 

And  showed  him  all  the  signs  above. 

But  not  a  whisper  about  love. 

'  And  now  his  sixteenth  year  was  nigh. 

And  yet  he  had  not  learned  to  sigh  ; 
Had  sleep  and  appetite  to  spare ; 
He  could  not  tell  the  name  of  care ; 
And  all  because  he  did  not  know- 
There  were  such  things  as  girls  below. 
But  now  a  tempest  raged  aroimd, — 
The  hermit's  little  nest  was  drowned ; 


> 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  175 

Good  bye  then,  too,  poor  Philip's  crop, 
It  did  not  leave  a  tuniip-top. 
Poor  Philip  grieved,  apd  his  son  too, — 
They  prayed — they  knew  not  what  to  do ; 
If  they  were  hermits,  they  must  live, 
And  wolves  have  not  much  alms  to  give. 

Now,  in  his  native  tow'n,  he  knew 

He  had  disciples — rich  ones  too, 

"Who  would  not  let  him  beg  in  vain, 

But  set  the  hermit  up  again. 

But  what  to  do  with  his  young  son — 

Pray  tell  me,  what  would  you  have  done? 

Take  him  to  town  he  was  afraid. 

For  wJiat  if  he  should  see  a  maid  I 

In  love,  as  sure  as  he  had  eyes, 

Then  any  quantity  of  sighs  ! 

Leave  him  at  home?  the  wolves,  the  bears,-— 

Poor  Philip  had  a  father's  fears ! 

In  short,  he  knew  not  what  to  do, 

But  thought  at  last  he'd  take  him  too; 

And  so,  with  truly  pious  care, 

He  counts  his  beads  in  anxious  prayer, — 

Intended  as  a  sort  of  charm. 

To  keep  his  darling  lad  from  harm; 

That  is,  from  pretty  ladies'  wiles, 

Especially  their  eyes  and  smiles ; — 

Then  brushed  his  coat  of  silver  gray, 

And  now  you  see  them  on  their  way. 

It  was  a  town,  they  all  agree, 

Where  there  was  everything  to  see. 

As  paintings,  statues,  and  so  on, 

All  that  men  love  to  look  upon. 

Our  little  lad,  you  may  suppose, 

Had  never  seen  so  many  shows ; 

He  stands  with  open  mouth  and  eyes, 

Like  one  just  fallen  from  the  skies; 

Pointing  at  everything  he  sees — 

What's  this?    what's  that?  Oh,  here,  what's  these? 

At  last  he  spies  a  charming  thing, 

That  men  call  angel  when  they  sing — 

Young  lady,  when  they  s])eak  in  prose; 

Sweet  thing !  as  everybody  knows. 

Transported,  raAnshed,  at  the  sight ; 

He  feels  a  strange,  but  sweet  delight. 

What's  this?  what's  this?   Oh,  heavens ! "  he  cries, 

"That  looks  so  sweetly  with  its  eyes: 


176  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Oh,  shall  I  catch  it !  is  it  tame  ? 
What  iH  it,  father?  what's  its  name?" 
Poor  Philip  knew  not  what  to  say, 
But  tried  to  turn  his  eyes  away ; 
He  crossed  himself  and  made  a  vow, 
"  'Tis  as  I  feared,  all's  over  now ; 
Then,  prithee,  have  thy  wits  let  loose? 
It  is  a  bird  men  call  a  goose." 
"  A  goose !  O  i)retty,  pretty  thing ! 
And  will  it  sing,  too,  will  it  sing? 
Oh,  come,  come  quickly,  let  us  nm, 
That's  a  good  father,  catch  me  one  1 
"We'll  take  it  with  us  to  our  cell. 
Indeed,  indeed,  I'll  treat  it  well ! " 


THE  TWO  VILLAGES.— Rose  Terey. 

Over  the  river  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still; 
All  around  it  the  forest  trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow. 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river  shore  ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowera; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut ; 

You  can  not  enter  in  hall  or  hut ; 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep ; 

Never  a  grain  to  soav  or  reap , 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh, 

Silent,  and  idle,  and  low  they  lie. 


NUMBER   SEVEN.  177 

In  that  \allage  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home,  from  this  below ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild. 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praving,  this  answer  fall — 
"  Patience  !  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all." 


DAMON  TO  THE  SYRACUSANS  — John  Banim. 

Are  all  content? 

A  nation's  rights  betrayed,  and  all  content? 
What !  with  your  own  free  willing  hands  yield  up 
The  ancient  fabric  of  your  constitution. 
To  be  a  garrison  for  common  cut-throats ! 
What !  will  ye  all  combine  to  tie  a  stone. 
Each  to  each  other's  neck,  and  drown  like  dogs? 
Are  you  so  bound  in  fetters  of  the  mind 
That  there  you  sit,  as  if  you  were  yourselves 
Incorporate  with  the  marble  ?    Syracusans ! — 
.  But  no !     I  will  not  rail,  nor  chide,  nor  curse  you ! 
I  will  imi)lore  you,  fellow-countrymen  ! 
With  Ijlinded  eyes,  and  weak  and  broken  speech, 
I  will  implore  you — Oh  !  I  am  weak  in  words. 
But  I  could  bring  such  advocates  before  you, — 
Your  ftithers'  sacred  images ;   old  men. 
That  have  been  grandsires;  women  with  their  children 
Caught  up  in  fear  and  hurry,  in  their  arms ; 
And  those  old  men  should  lift  their  shivering  voices 
And  palsied  hands,  and  those  affrighted  mothers 
Should  hold  their  innocent  infants  forth,  and  ask, 
Can  you  make  Siaves  of  tfiem  f 


EXAMPLE. 


"We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  han(i. 

And  dream  we  ne'er  shall  see  them  more; 
But  for  a  thousand  years 
Their  fruit  api)ears. 
In  weeds  that  mar  the  land. 
Or  healthful  store. 

60* 


178  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say — 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet, 
"We  count  them  ever  past ; 
But  they  shall  last — 
In  the  dread  judgment  they 
And  we  shall  meet ! 

I  charge  thee  by  the  years  gone  by, 
For  the  love's  sake  of  brethren  dear, 
Keep  thou  the  one  true  way, 
In  work  and  play. 
Lest  in  that  world  their  cry 
Of  woe  thou  hear. 


THE  DUMB-WAITER.— F.  S.  Cozzens. 

We  nave  put  a  dumb-waiter  in  our  house.  A  dumb-waiter 
Is  a  good  thing  to  have  in  the  country,  on  account  of  its  con- 
venience. If  you  have  company,  every  thing  can  be  sent  up 
from  the  kitoiien  witnout  any  trouble ;  and  if  the  baby  gets 
to  be  unbearable,  on  account  of  his  teeth,  you  can  dismiss 
the  complainant  by  stuffing  him  in  one  of  the  shelves,  and 
letting  him  down  upon  the  heli^. 

To  provide  for  contingencies,  we  had  all  our  floors  deaf- 
ened. In  consequence,  you  can  not  hear  any  thing  that  is 
going  on  in  the  story  below ;  and  when  you  are  in  an  upper 
room  of  the  house,  there  might  be  a  democratic  ratification- 
meeting  in  the  cellar,  and  you  would  not  know  it.  There- 
fore, if  any  one  snould  break  into  the  basement,  it  would 
not  disturb  us ;  but  to  please  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  I  put  stout 
iron  bars  in  all  the  lower  windows.  Besides,  Mrs.  Sparrow- 
grass  had  bought  a  rattle  when  she  was  in  Philadelphia ; 
such  a  rattle  as  watcnraen  carry  there.  This  is  to  alarm  our 
neighbor,  who,  upon  the  signal,  is  to  come  to  the  rescue  with 
his  revolver.  He  is  a  rash  man,  prone  to  pull  trigger  first, 
and  make  inquiries  afterward. 

One  evening,  Mrs.  S.  had  retired,  and  I  was  busy  writing, 
when  it  struck  me  a  glass  of  ice-water  would  be  paiatable. 
So  I  took  the  candle  and  a  pitcher,  and  went  down  to  the 
pump.  Our  pump  is  in  the  kitchen.  A  country  pump  in  the 
kitchen,  is  more  convenient ;  but  a  well  with  buckets  is  cer- 


NUMBER    SEVEN.  179 

tainly  most  picturesque.  Uii  fortunately,  our  well-water  hits 
not  been  sweet  since  it  was  cleaned  out. 

First,  I  had  to  open  a  bolted  door  that  lets  you  into  the 
basement  hall,  and  then  I  went  to  the  kitchen  door,  which 
proved  to  be  locked.  Then  I  remembered  that  our  girl  al- 
ways carried  the  key  to  bed  with  her,  and  slept  with  it  under 
her  pillow.  Then  I  retraced  my  steps ;  bolted  the  basement 
door,  and  went  up  into  the  dining-room.  As  is  always  the 
case,  I  found,  when  I  could  not  get  any  water,  I  was  thirstier 
than  I  supposed  I  was.  Then  I  thought  I  would  wake  our 
girl  up.  Then  I  concluded  not  to  do  it.  Then  I  thought  of 
the  well,  but  I  gave  that  up  on  account  of  its  flavor.  Then 
I  opened  the  closet  doors :  there  was  no  water  there ;  and 
then  I  thought  of  the  dumb-waiter !  The  novelty  of  the  idea 
made  me  smile  ;  I  took  out  two  of  the  movable  shelves,  stood 
the  pitcher  on  the  bottom  of  the  dumb-waiter,  got  in  my- 
self with  the  lamp ;  let  myself  down  until  I  supposed  I  was 
within  a  foot  of  the  floor  below,  and  then  let  go. 

We  came  down  so  suddenly,  that  I  was  shot  out  of  the  ap- 
paratus as  if  it  had  been  a  catapiflt ;  it  broke  the  pitcher, 
extinguished  the  lamp,  and  landed  me  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  at  midnight,  with  no  Are,  and  the  air  not  much 
above  the  zero  point.  The  truth  is,  I  had  miscalculated  the 
distance  of  the  descent, — instead  of  falling  one  foot,  I  had 
fallen  five.  My  first  impulse  was,  to  ascend  by  the  way  1 
came  down,  but  I  found  that  impracticable.  Then  I  tried 
the  kitchen  door  :  it  was  locked.  I  tried  to  force  it  open ;  it 
was  made  of  two-inch  stuff,  and  held  its  own.  Then  I  hoist- 
ed a  window,  and  there  were  the  rigid  iron  bars.  If  I  ever 
felt  an^ry  at  anybody  it  was  at  myself,  for  jjutting  up  those 
bars  to  please  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass.  I  put  them  up,  not  to 
keep  people  in,  but  to  keep  people  out. 

I  laid  my  cheek  against  the  ice-(;old  barriers,  and  looked 
out  at  the  sky :  not  a  star  was  visible  ;  it  was  as  bla^'k  as  ink 
overhead.  Then  I  thought  of  Baron  Trenck  and  the  pris- 
oner of  Chillon.  Then  I  made  a  noise!  I  shouted  until  I 
was  hoarse,  and  ruined  our  preserving-kettle  with  the  poker. 
That  brought  our  dogs  out  in  full  bark,  and  between  us  we 
made  the  night  hideous.  Tlien  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice, 
and   listened :    it  wius  Mr.s.  8parrow[^rass  calling  to  mc  from 


180  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

the  top  of  the  stair-case.  I  tried  to  make  her  hear  me,  but 
the  infernal  dogs  united  with  howl,  and  growl,  and  bark,  so 
as  to  drown  my  voice,  which  is  naturally  plaintive  and  ten- 
der. Besides,  there  were  two  bolted  doors  and  double  deaf- 
ened floors  between  us.  How  could  she  recognize  my  voice, 
even  if  she  did  hear  it  ? 

Mris.  Sparrowgrass  called  once  or  twice,  and  then  got 
frightened ;  the  next  thing  I  heard  was  a  sound  as  if  the 
rojf  had  fallen  in,  by  which  I  understood  that  Mrs.  Spar- 
rowgrass was  springing  the  rattle !  That  called  out  our  neigh- 
bor, already  wide  awake ;  he  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  bull- 
terrier,  a  Newfoundland  pup,  a  lantern,  and  a  revolver.  The 
moment  he  saw  me  at  the  window,  he  shot  at  me,  but  for- 
tunately just  missed  me.  I  threw  myself  under  the  kitchen 
table,  and  ventured  to  expostulate  with  him,  but  he  would 
not  listen  to  reason.  In  the  excitement  I  had  forgotten  his 
name,  and  that  made  matters  worse.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  roused  up  everybody  around,  broken  in  the  basement 
door  with  an  axe,  gotten  into  the  kitchen  with  his  cursed 
savage  dogs  and  shcoting-iron,  and  seized  me  by  the  collar, 
that  he  recognized  me, — and  then,  he  wanted  me  to  exj^lain 
it !  But  what  kind  of  an  explanation  could  I  make  to  him  ? 
I  told  him  he  would  have  to  wait  until  my  mind  was  com- 
posed, and  then  I  would  let  him  understand  the  matter  fully. 
Bnt  he  never  would  have  had  the  particulars  from  me,  for  I 
do  not  approve  of  neighbors  that  shoot  at  you,  break  in 
your  door,  and  treat  you  in  your  own  house  as  if  you  were 
a  jail -bird.  He  knows  all  about  it,  however, — somebody 
has  told  him, — somebody  tells  everybody  every  thing  in  our 
village. 


liirl  iisltt 


I 


EcLcK  of  the  FouLV  J^izTnters  of 
" lOO  Choice  SelecttoTZs  "  coTxtained. 
tn.  tTvts  volzime  is  paged.  sepo-TCbtely, 
CLThd,  the  IrLde:s:  is  mcLde  to  coTres- 
poTid  thereTvitJi.  See  explanation  on. 
first  page  of  Corbtents. 

The  entire  hook  contctiThs  Ttectvly 
10 OO  pages. 


lOO 
CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

No.    8. 


NEVER  GIVE  UP. 


Never  give  up ! — it  is  wiser  and  better 

Always  to  hope,  than  once  to  despair; 
Fling  otf  the  load  of  doubt's  cankering  fetters, 

And  break  the  dark  spell  of  tyrannical  care. 
Never  give  up,  or  the  burden  may  sink  you, — 

Providence  kindly  has  mingled  the  cup ; 
And  in  all  trials  and  troubles  bethink  you, 

The  watchword  of  life  must  be,  "  Never  give  up !" 

Never  give  up ;  there  are  chances  and  changes. 

Helping  the  hopeful,  a  hundred  to  one. 
And  through  the  chaos,  High  Wisdom  arranges 

Ever  success,  if  you'll  only  hold  on. 
Never  give  up ;  for  the  wisest  is  boldest. 

Knowing  that  Providence  mingles  the  cup, 
And  of  all  maxims,  the  best,  as  the  oldest. 

Is  the  stern  watchword  of  "  Never  give  up ! " 

Never  give  up,  tliongh  the  grape-shot  may  rattle, 

Or  the  fidl  thunder-cloud  over  you  burst; 
Stand  like  a  rock,  and  the  storm  or  the  Ivittle 

Little  shall  harm  yon,  though  doing  their  worst. 
Never  give  up;  if  adversity  press(!s. 

Providence  wisely  has  mingled  the  cup; 
And  the  best  coimsel  in  all  your  distresses 

Is  the  brave  watchword  of  "  Never  give  up!  " 


8  ONE    HUNI>REI>    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 


THE  LABORER —W.  D.  Gallagher. 

Stand  up— erect !    Thou  hast  the  form 
And  Ukeness  of  thy  God!— who  more? 

A  soul  us  dauntLess  'mid  the  storm 

Of  daily  Ufe,  a  heart  as  warm 
And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then?— Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  ma.ss  among; 
As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 
That  with  Creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy?    the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 
With  proud  step  and  averted  eye? 
Nay !    Nurse  not  such  belief 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  theer 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  lightlv  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

I^o  .—uncurbed  passions.  Tow  desires. 

Absence  of  noble  self-resi>ect,— 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  hish  nature  which  aspires 
Foi ever,  till  thus  checked,— 

Thrsp  are  thine  enemies,— thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot. 
Thy  labor  and  thy  life  accursed: 
Oh,  stand  erect !  and  from  them  burst. 

And  longer  suffer  not  1 

Thou  art  thvself  thine  enemy! 

The  great"!— what  better  they  than  thou? 
As  theirs  is  not  thy  will  as  free  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not,— 'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place,— uncertain  as  the  wmd ! 
But  that  thou  hast  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despis'6  the  lust 

Of  both,— a  noble  mind. 


NUMBER    EIGHT. 


"With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
True  faith,  and  lioly  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  tlie  peei  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then.;  that  thy  httle  span 
Of  life  may  well  be  trod. 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LABOR.— Newman  Hall, 

There  is  dignity  in  toil — in  toil  of  the  hand  as  well  as  toil 
of  the  head^n  toil  to  provide  for  the  bodily  wants  of  an 
Individual  life,  as  well  as  in  toil  to  promote  some  enterprise 
of  world-wide  fame.  All  labor  that  tends  to  supply  man's 
wants,  to  increase  man's  happiness,  to  elevate  man's  nature 
— in  a  word,  all  labor  that  is  honest — is  honorable  too.  Laboi 
clears  the  forest,  and  drains  the  morass,  and  makes  "  the  wil- 
derness rejoice  and  blossom  as  the  rose."  Labor  drives  the 
plow,  and  scatters  the  seeds,  and  reaps  the  harvest,  and 
grinds  the  corn,  and  converts  it  into  bread,  the  staff  of  life. 
Labor,  tending  the  pastures  and  sweeping  the  waters  as  well 
as  cultivating  the  soil,  provides  with  daily  sustenance  the 
nine  hundred  millions  of  the  femily  of  man.  Labor  gather.^ 
the  gossamer  web  of  the  caterpillar,  the  cotton  from  the  field 
and  the  fleece  from  the  flock,  and  weaves  it  into  raiment 
soft  and  warm  and  beautiful,  the  purple  robe  of  the  prince 
and  the  gray  gown  of  the  peasant  being  alike  its  handiwork. 
Labor  moulds  the  brick,  and  splits  the  slate,  and  quarries  the 
stone,  and  shapes  the  column,  and  rears  not  only  the  hum- 
ble cottage,  but  the  gorgeous  palace,  and  the  tapering  spire, 
and  the  stately  dome.  Labor,  diving  deep  into  the  solid 
earth,  brings  uj)  its  long-hidden  stores  of  coal  to  feed  ten 
thousaml  furnaces,  and  in  millions  of  homes  to  defy  the 
winter's  cold. 

Labor  explores  the  rich  veins  of  deeply-buried  rocks,  ex- 
tracting the  gold  and  silver,  the  copper  and  tin.  liabor 
smelts  the  iron,  and  moulds  it  into  a  thousand  sliapes  for  use 
and  ornament,  from  the  massive  pillar  to  the  tiniest  needle, 
from  the  ponderous  anchor  to  flx^  wire  gauze,  from  tlio 
mighty  fly-wheel  of  the  steam-engine  to  the  polished  purscv 

67* 


lO  ONK    HUNDRED    CHOICB    SELECTIONS 

ring  or  the  glittering  bead.  Labor  hews  down  the  gnarled 
oak,  and  shapes  the  timber,  and  builds  the  ship,  and  guides 
it  over  the  deep,  plunging  through  the  billows,  and  wrest- 
ling with  the  tempest,  to  bear  to  our  shores  the  produce 
of  every  clime. 

Labor,  laughing  at  difficulties,  spans  majestic  rivers,  carries 
viaducts  over  marshy  swamps,  suspends  bridges  over  deep 
ravines,  pierces  the  solid  mountain  with  its  dark  tunnel, 
blasting  rocks  and  tilling  hollows,  and  while  linking  together 
with  its  iron  but  loving  grasp  all  nations  of  the  earth,  veri- 
fying, in  a  literal  sense,  the  ancient  prophecy, "  Every  valley 
shall  be  exalted,  and  every  mountain  and  hill  shall  be  brought 
low ; "  labor  draws  forth  its  delicate  iron  thread,  and  stretch- 
jng  it  from  city  to  city,  from  province  to  province,  through 
mountains  and  beneath  the  sea,  realizes  more  than  fancy 
ever  fabled,  while  it  constructs  a  chariot  on  which  speech 
may  outstrip  the  wind,  and  compete  with  the  lightning,  for 
the  telegraph  flies  as  rapidly  as  thought  itself 

Labor,  a  mighty  magician,  walks  forth  into  a  region  unin- 
habited and  waste ;  he  looks  earnestly  at  the  scene,  so  quiet 
in  its  desolation ;  then  waA'ing  his  wonder-working  wand, 
those  dreary  valleys  smile  with  golden  harvests ;  those  bar- 
ren mountain-sloijes  are  clothed  with  foliage ;  the  furnace 
blazes ;  the  anvil  rings ;  the  busy  wheel  whirls  round  ;  the 
town  appears ;  the  mart  of  commerce,  the  hall  of  science, 
the  temple  of  religion,  rear  high  their  lofty  fronts ;  a  forest 
of  masts,  gay  with  varied  pennons,  rises  from  the  harbor ; 
representatives  of  far-off  regions  make  it  their  resort ;  Sci- 
ence enlists  the  elements  of  earth  and  heaven  in  its  ser\nce ; 
Art,  awakening,  clothes  its  strength  with  beauty;  Civiliza- 
tion smiles ;  Liberty  is  glad ;  Humanity  rejoices ;  Piety  ex' 
ults ;  for  the  voice  of  industry  and  gladness  is  heard  on  every 
side. 

Working  men,  walk  worthy  of  your  vocation  !  You  have 
a  noble  escutcheon ;  disgrace  it  not.  There  is  nothing  really 
mean  and  low  but  sin.  Stoop  not  from  your  lofty  throne  to 
defile  yourselves  by  contamination  with  intemperance,  licen- 
tiousness, or  any  form  of  evil.  Labor,  allied  with  \artue, 
may  look  up  to  Heaven  and  not  blush,  while  all  worldly  dig- 
nities, prostituted  to  vice,  will  leave  their  owner  without  a 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  11 

corner  of  the  universe  in  which  to  hide  his  shame.  You 
will  most  successfully  prove  the  honor  of  toil  by  illustrating 
in  your  own  persons  its  alliance  with  a  sober,  righteous,  and 
godly  life.  Be  ye  sure  of  this,  that  the  man  of  toil,  who 
works  in  a  spirit  of  obedient,  loving  homage  to  God,  does 
no  less  than  clierubim  and  seraphim  in  their  loftiest  flights 
ajid  holiest  songs. 


THE  SHADOW   ON  THE  BLIND. 

Alas !  what  errors  are  sometimes  committed. 
What  blunders  are  made,  what  duties  omitted. 
What  scandals  arise,  what  mischief  is  wrought, 
Through  want  of  a  moment's  reflection  and  thought! 
How  many  a  fair  reputation  has  flown 
Through  a  stab  in  the  dark  from  some  person  unknown  ; 
Or  some  tale  spread  abroad  with  assiduous  care, 
When  the  story  the  strictest  inspection  would  bear! 
How  often  rage,  malice,  and  envy  are  found ; 
How  often  contention  and  hatred  abound 
Where  true  love  should  exist,  and  harmony  dwell, 
Through  a  misunderstanding,  alas !  who  can  tell  ? 

Mr.  Ferdinand  Plum  was  a  grocer  by  trade ; 
By  attention  and  tact  he  a  fortune  had  made ; 
No  tattler,  nor  maker  of  mischief  was  he, 
But  as  honest  a  man  as  you'd  e'er  wish  to  see. 
Of  a  chapel,  close  by,  he  was  deacon,  they  say, 
And  his  minister  lived  just  over  the  way. 

Mr.  Plum  was  retiring  to  rest  one  night, 
He  had  just  undressed  and  put  out  the  light, 

And  pulled  back  the  blind 

As  he  peeped  from  behind 
('Tis  a  custom  with  many  to  do  so,  you'll  find), 

When,  glancing  his  eye, 

He  happened  to  spv 
On  the  blinds  on  the  opposite  side — oh,  fie! 
Two  shadows;  each  movement  of  .course  he  could  see, 
And  the  i)eople  were  quarreling  evidently. 
"Well  I  never,"  said  Plum,  as  he  witnessed  the  strife, 
"I  declare  'tis  the  minister  beating  his  wife!" 
The  minister  held  a  thick  stick  in  his  hand, 
And  his  wife  ran  away  as  lie  shook  the  brand, 
AV'^hilst  h(^r  shrieks  and  cries  were  quite  shocking  to  hear, 
And  the  sounds  came  across  most  remarkably  clear. 


12  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Well,  things  are  deceiving, 

But — '  seeing's  believing,' " 
Baid  Plum  to  himself,  as  he  turned  into  bed ; 

"  Now,  who  would  have  thought 

That  man  would  have  fought 
A.nd  beaten  his  wife  on  her  shoulders  and  head 

With  a  great  big  stick, 

At  least  three  inches  thick  ? 
I  ara  sure  her  shrieks  quite  filled  me  with  dread. 

I've  a  great  mind  to  bring 

The  whole  of  the  thing 
Before  the  church  members ,  but  no,  I  have  read 
A.  proverb  which  says  '  Least  said  soonest  mended.'" 
And  thus  Mr.  Plum's  mild  soliloquy  ended. 

But,  alas!    Mr.  Plum's  eldest  daughter,  Miss  Jane, 
Saw  the  whole  of  the  scene,  and  could  not  refrain 
From  telling  Miss  Spot,  and  Miss  Spot  told  again 
(Though  of  course  in  strict  confidence)  every  one 
Whom  she  happened  to  know,  what  the  parson  had  done 
So  the  news  spread  abroad,  and  soon  reached  the  ear 
Of  the  parson  himself,  and  he  traced  it,  I  hear. 
To  the  author.  Miss  Jane.     Jane  could  not  deny, 
But  at  the  same  time  she  begged  leave  to  defy 
The  parson  to  prove  she  had  uttered  a  lie. 

A  church  meeting  was  called :  Mr.  Plum  made  a  speecL* 
He  said,  "Friends,  pray  listen  awhile,  I  beseech. 
What  my  daughter  has  said  is  most  certainly  true, 
For  I  saw  the  whole  scene  on  the  same  evening,  too ; 
But,  not  wishing  to  make  an  unpleasantness  rife, 
I  did  not  tell  either  my  daughter  or  wife. 
But  of  course  as  Miss  Jane  saw  the  whole  of  the  act, 
I  think  it  but  right  to  attest  to  the  fact. 

"  'Tis  remarkably  strange  !  "  the  parson  replied: 
"  It  is  plain  Mr.  Plum  must  something  have  spied ; 
Though  the  wife-beating  story  of  course  is  denied; 
And  in  that  I  can  say  I  am  grossly  belied," 
AVhile  he  ransacks  his  brain,  and  ponders,  and  triev, 
To  recall  any  scene  that  could  ever  give  rise 
To  so  monstrous  a  charge, — just  then  his  wife  cries, 
"  I  have  it,  my  love :  you  remember  that  night 
When  I  had  such  a  horrible,  terrible  fright. 
We  both  were  retiring  that  evening  to  rest, — 
I  was  seated,  my  dear,  and  but  partly  undressed, 
When  a  nasty  large  rat  jumped  close  to  my  feet ; 
My  shrieking  was  heard,  I  suppose,  m  the  street ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  13 

You  cau2;ht  up  the  poker,  and  ran  round  the  room, 
And  at  last  knocked  the  rat,  and  so  sealed  its  doom. 
Oar  shadows,  my  love,  must  have  played  on  the  blind ; 
And  this  is  the"  mystery  solved,  you  will  find." 

Moral. 

Don't  believe  every  tale  that  is  handed  about ; 

We  have  all  enough  faults  and  real  failings,  without 

Being  burdened  with  those  of  which  there's  a  doubt. 

If  you  study  this  tale,  I  thinkj  too,  you  will  find 

That  a  light  should  be  placed  in  the  front,  not  behind: 

For  often  strange  shadows  are  seen  on  the  bUnd. 


TIRED  MOTHERS.— Mrs.  Albert  Smith. 


A  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, — 

Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear; 
A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 

Frona  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers,  folding  yours  so  tight ; 
You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch, — 

You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray  to-night. 

But  it  is  blessedness !     A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day — 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless  ;  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  till  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me. 

That,  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 

And  if,  some  night  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 

You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee, — 
This  restless  curling  head  from  off  your  breast, — 

This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly  ; 
If  from  your  own  the  dimi)led  hands  had  slii)ped, 

And  ne'er  would  n(!stle  in  your  palm  again  ; 
If  the  whit(;  feet  into  their  grave  had  tri])])ed, 

I  could  not  blamo  you  for  your  heartache  then. 


14  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown ; 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 

Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber-floor, — 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  it  patter  in  my  house  once  more, — 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  l^ite  to  reach  the  sky, 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But  ah !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head ; 
My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  is  flown, — 

The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead  1 


THE  EAGLE'S  ROv.K. 

'Twas  the  Golden  Eagle's  Rock, 

Craggy  and  wild  and  lone, 
Where  he  sat  in  state,  with  his  royal  mate, 

On  his  undisputed  throne. 

High  on  the  dizzy  steep 

Did  their  blood-stained  eyrie  lie, 
Where  the  white  bones  told  who  had  robb'd  the  fold 

When  the  shepherd  was  not  by. 

Well  might  the  spoilers  gloat 

At  ease  in  their  fortress  gray. 
For  never  had  man,  since  the  world  began, 

Clambered  its  height  half-way ! 

And  the  Golden  Eagle  stood 

Eyeing  the  noon-day  sun. 
Till  the  clamoring  cry  of  his  nestlings  nigh, 

Charged  him  with  work  undone ; 

And  his  mighty  wings  are  spread. 
And  he  sweepeth  down  chasms  wide ; 

And  his  fierce  eyes  gleam  by  the  mountain  stream, 
And  he  scours  the  hill's  green  side. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  15 


Then  o'er  a  shady  glen 

Doth  the  bold  marauder  sail, 

AVhere  villagers  gay  hold  a  festal  day- 
Down  m  their  verdant  vale. 

Apart  from  a  joyous  group 

A  mother  her  darling  bears ; 
With  happy  smiles  at  lais  baby  -wiles, 

His  innocent  mirth  she  shares. 

Then  she  sits  on  the  velvet  sward, 

Shaded  by  trees  at  noon, 
And  roeks  him  to  rest  on  her  loving  breast, 

Singing  a  low,  sweet  tune. 

Now  on  the  soft  green  turf 

That  mother  her  babe  doth  lie, 
"While  over  its  head  is  a  watcher  dread, 

In  that  dark  spot  in  the  sky. 

She  kisses  its  cherub  cheek. 

And  leaves  it  awhile;  ah,  woe! 
For  l^roader  above,  o'er  her  gentle  dove, 

That  terrible  spot  doth  grow. 

Hushed  was  the  peasants'  mirth, 
And  the  stoutest  they  stood  aghast; 

And  the  wail  of  despair,  it  rent  the  air. 
As  the  eagle  o'er  them  passed. 

He  has  stolen  the  pretty  child, 

All  in  its  rosy  sleep ; 
And  bears  it  in  might,  with  ponderous  flight. 

Straight  towards  his  castle-keep ! 

Whose  is  that  up-turned  face, 

White  as  the  mountain  snow? 
Horror  is  there,  and  l)lank  despair. 

Speechless  and  tearless  woe ; — 

Pale  are  those  bloodless  lips ; 

But  lo  !  in  that  mother's  eye 
There  flasheth  the  Hght  of  love'g  great  might, 

Stronger  than  agony. 

She  darts  from  the  wailing  throng, 

Her  coming  is  like  the  wind  ; 
The  weej)ing  loud  of  the  noisy  crowd 

Dieth  away  behind. 


f6  CI.'E  HcfNDEED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

She  rusheth  o'er  field  and  fell, 

Her  footsteps  at  liiiidraiice  mock  ; 
She  startles  the  snake  in  the  rustling  brake, 

And  reacheth  the  Eagle's  rock ! 

Mother,  go  home  and  weep ! 

What  canst  thou  farther  do  ? 
Over  thy  head,  immense  and  dread, 

Frowneth  the  mountain  blue. 

Sorrow  hath  made  her  mad ; 

She  scaleth  the  rough  rock's  side. 
Now  passing  the  edge  of  a  shelving  ledge, 

And  now  on  a  platform  wide. 

Onward  and  upward  still, 

Scarce  doth  she  pause  for  breath ; 
Woman,  beware !  thou  hast  not  there 

"A  step  between  thee  and  death ! " 

Scrambling  up  fearful  crags, 

Still  doth  she  higher  go  ; 
Close  let  her  cling !  the  loose  stones  ring 

Clatt'ring  to  depths  below. 

First  of  the  breathless  crowds, 

Flocking  in  haste  beneath, 
A  son  of  the  wave,  high-souled  and  brave, 

Dasheth  across  the  heath. 

He  follows  her  upward  flight, 

Yes,  till  his  eyes  grow  dim  ; 
In  the  fierce  storm-blast  he  has  topped  the  mast, 

But  this  is  no  place  for  him. 

So  he  must  softly  creep 

Down  from  the  heights  above  ; 
His  heart  it  is  true,  but  he  never  knew 

The  might  of  a  mother's  love. 

Higher  she  mounts !  she  climbs 

Where  the  wild  goat  fears  to  stand ; 
Death  follows  behind,  fleet,  fleet  as  the  wind, 

Still  she  eludes  his  hand ! 

She  reacheth  the  fearful  wall 

Under  the  great  rock's  brow, 
Where  the  ivy  has  clung,  and  has  swayed  and  swung 

From  earliest  time  till  now. 


NUMBER    EIGHT. 


17 


Clanib'riii<z  the  net-work  old 

Which  its  twilling'  stems  have  wrought, 

She  wrestles  in  praver  with  her  Maker  there ; 
Doth  she  "  fear  God  for  nought?" 

Niagara's  awful  flood 

Is  spanned  by  a  radiant  bow ; 
And  jov,  she  springs,  on  her  sunny  wings, 

I'roDi  the  blackest  tide  of  woe. 

And  the  cry  of  that  mother's  heart 

Is  heard,  and  her  faith  is  blest ; 
For,  with  rapture  wild,  she  hath  snatched  her  child 

Unharmed  from  the  eagle's  nest ! 

Flapping  their  dusky  wings. 

Fiercely  the  spoilers  came ; 
And  she  heard  their  screams,  and  she  saw  the  gleams. 

That  shot  "from  their  eyes  of  flame. 

like  spirits  of  evil  foul, 

They  circled  amund  her  head ; 
Then  yelling  aloud,  amazed  and  cowed, 

Down  the'steep  rock  they  fled. 

Close  to  her  throbbing  heart 

She  bindeth  her  weeping  child ; 
She  wipeth  its  tears,  and  she  quells  its  fears, 

Up  in  that  region  wild ; 

And  she  blesses  the  Mighty  Hand 

That  carrio.l  her  there,  and  knows 
That  aid  shall  be  lent  through  the  dread  descent, 

To  that  perilous  journey's  close. , 

Hush !  down  the  rifted  rock 

She  beareth  her  burden  sweet; 
No  might  of  her  own  maketh  fast  each  stone 

Firmly  beneath  her  feet. 

She  trusts,  and  her  bleeding  hands 

Safclv  the  ivv  grasp. 
For  a  spirit  of  love  from  her  God  above 

Is  strengthening  it  in  her  clasp. 

Lower  she  comes,  and  sees 

Beneath  her  n  nioimtain  lamb, 
That,  cautious  and  sl<.w,  to  the  vale  below, 

Follows  its  careful  dam  ; 
2 


£8  ONE    HUNDKED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

And  she  tracketh,  with  thankful  heart, 

The  path  of  her  gentle  guide, 
Whose  feet  will  be  found  on  the  surest  ground, 

Down  the  steep  mountain's  side. 

Hark !  from  the  plain  beneath, 

Voices  are  rising  loud  ; 
The  shout  and  the  cheer,  they  have  reached  her  ear. 

And  she  seeth  the  breathless  crowd. 

Louder,  and  louder  still, 

Swelleth  the  welcome  strain. 
Oh,  loving  heart!  thou  hast  done  thy  part; 

Eeturn  to  thy  home  again. 

She  reacheth  the  mountain's  foot ; 

Hurrah !  for  her  task  is  o'er ; 
The  deed  she  hath  done  hath  a  tribute  won 

Of  praises  for  evermore. 

And  a  lesson  she  taught  to  all, 

Of  energy,  faith,  and  love  ; 
Hast  thou  the  right  ?    Stand  up  and  fight, 

Looking  to  God  above ! 

Shame  on  ye  !  timid  souls. 

Feeble  for  aught  but  ill ; 
Shall  sin  and  shall  woe  waste  this  world  below, 

And  will  ye  lie  sluggish  still  ? 

Wrest  from  their  grasp  the  prey ; 

Crush  them,  though  cowards  mock  ; 
And  if  the  heart  quail  and  the  courage  fail, 

Think  of  the  Eagle's  Rock  1 


THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS.— Leigh  Hunt. 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a  royal  sport, 
And  one  day  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court ; 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches,  with  the  ladies  in  their  pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the   Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for 

whom  he  sighed : 
And  truh  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  that  crowning  show. 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal  beasts  below. 


NTTMBER    EIGHT.  it) 

Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laiighinp:  jaws ; 
They  hit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a  wind  went 

with  their  paws; 
AVith   wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  rolled  on  one 

another, 
Till  all   the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a  thunderous 

smother ; 
The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whisking  through  the 

air; 
Said  Francis  then,  "  Faith,  gentlemen,  we're  better  here  than 

there ! " 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  King,  a  beauteous  lively  dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which  always  seemed 

the  same ; 
She  thougJ^t, "  The  Count,  my  lover,  is  brave  as  brave  can  be. 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his  love  of  me; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on  ;  the  occasion  is  divine  ; 
I'll  drop   my  glove,  to  prove  his  love ;  great  glory  will  be 

mine ! " 

She  dropped  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  on  him 

and  smiled ; 
He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the  lions  wild : 
The   leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  has  regained  his 

place. 
Then   threw  the  glove, —  but  not  with  love, —  right  in  the 

lady's  face. 
"By  Heaven!"  said  Francis,  "rightly  done  !"  and  he  rose 

from  where  he  sat ; 
"  No  love,"  quoth  he,  "  but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task  like  that." 


MR.  PERKINS   HELPS  TO  MOVE  A  STOVE. 
James  M.  Bailey.  (Danbuuy  News  Man.) 

It  seems  a  pity  that  the  glory  of  these  bright  Ma} -t'.;iys 
should  be  marred  by  the  gross  materialism  of  soap  and  brush, 
mop  and  broom;  that  the  fragrant  and  delicate  perfumes 
of  budding  nature  and  nliuospherical  freshness  should  be 
harnessed  to  the  donljlfiil  iirnina  ufan  upturned  house.  But 
over  our   broad  and  beautiful  land  t lie  terrors  of  domestic 


20  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

reform  hold  sway,  and  the  masculine  mind  is  harrowed  by 
spectacles  the  little  happiness  we  are  allotted  in  this  world 
does  not  warrant. 

Mrs.  Perkins  has  devoted  this  week  to  the  onerous  duty 
of  cleaning  house.  Since  six  o'clock  Monday  morning  that 
estimable  lady  has  been  the  motive  power  of  many  brushes 
and  cloths,  and  of  much  water  and  soap.  At  various  hours 
when  I  have  made  my  appearance  near  the  house,  I  have 
caught  sight  of  her  portly  form  through  several  win- 
dows, a  flaring  handkerchief  concealing  her  temples,  and 
covering  the  site  of  her  chignon. 

There  waa  an  expression  of  deep  redness  upon  hel- features 
that  pained  me  while  I  beheld,  but  which  at  the  same  timo 
led  me  to  remark  to  myself  that  it  was  not  the  most  favora- 
ble time  for  making  a  call,  and  thus  looking  and  apjirehend- 
ing,  I  would  turn  sadly  away. 

Monday  morning  we  had  our  breakfast  in  our  comfortable 
dining  room.  At  noon  I  took  my  dinner  from  the  lid  of  the 
ice  chest.  It  was  dreadful  cold,  and  tasted  clammy  and  dis- 
agreeable. In  the  evening  I  stood  back  of  the  stove,  and 
partook  of  a  slice  of  bread,  (the  butter  had  got  mislaid)  and 
drank  some  of  last  year's  tea  from  the  irregular  spout  of  the 
milk  pitcher.  In  the  morning  we  ate  breakfast  in  the  sink, 
(there  was  no  fire  in  the  stove,  as  it  was  to  be  kept  cold  for 
moving).  The  victuals  had  a  flavor  of  great  dampness,  and 
tasted  as  though  they  had  been  fished  out  of  the  soap  barrel. 
After  astonishing  my  internal  structure  with  the  meal,  I  ac- 
cepted an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Perkins  to  take  down  the 
stove.  In  justice  to  myself  it  may  be  well  to  remark  that  ] 
never  took  down  a  stove,  nor  was  present  when  that  intri- 
cate performance  was  going  on,  and  this,  in  a  measure,  ac- 
counts for  the  slight  misgiving  I  may  have  entertained  when 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  tremendous  range. 

The  conversation  that  ensued  was  something  like  this, — 

"  You  want  to  use  great  care,  Mr.  Perkins,  and  not  let  the 
tvhole  thing  fall  on  you,  and  kill  yourself." 

This  appeared  reasonable  enough,  and  I  readih'^  promised 
to  use  my  best  endeavors  to  keep  the  whole  thing  from  fall~ 
ing  upon  me. 

"And,  Mr.  Perkins,  don't  get  nervous  with  th©  pipe,  because 


NUMBER    EIGHT-  •  21 

Mary  A  nn  has  just  scrubbed  the  floor,  and  that  stuff  gringes 
in  awfully." 

I  hadn't  the  remotest  idea  of  what  the  stuff  could  be  that 
gringes  in  awfully,  but  1  didn't  like  to  show  ignorance  before 
Mary  Ann,  and  so  I  confidently  responded, — 

"  Certainly  not." 

"And  be  very  careful  about  your  clothes,  Mr.  Perkins ; 
now  won't  you?"  This  appeal  was  delivered  with  so  much 
confidence  mingled  with  doubt,  that  I  hardly  knew  whether 
to  treat  it  as  a  compliment,  or  a  suspicion,  and  concluded  it 
was  best  to  split  the  diflerence,  and  preserve  silence. 

"  We  are  all  ready  now,  Mr.  Perkins.  Mary  Ann,  you 
come  here  and  steady  the  pipe  while  JMr.  Perkins  gets  on  the 
chair  and  takes  it  down." 

Upon  this  I  mounted  a  chair  and  grasped  the  pipe,  but  1 
must  not  neglect  to  mention  that  as  I  grasped  the  pipe,  ]\lrs. 
Perkins  grasped  my  legs. 

''  Goodness  gracious,  Cyrus  Davidson  Perkins!  don't  you 
know  better  than  to  stand  on  one  of  the  best  chairs  in  the 
house,  and  break  right  through  the  canes  ?  " 

I  had  to  admit  that  I  didn't  know  any  better,  but  cheer- 
fully got  down  and  mounted  another  chair.  This  time  I 
caught  the  pipe  by  its  neck,  and  gave  it  a  gentle  pull  from 
the  chimney.  It  didn't  move  a  bit,  which  encouraged  me  to 
believe  I  could  bring  a  little  more  muscle  into  play,  and  un- 
der this  impression  I  gave  an  extra  twist.  It  came  this 
time,  and  so  much  more  readily  than  I  had  reason  to  expect, 
that  I  stepped  down  to  the  floor  with  it,  passing  over  the  top 
of  the  stove,  and  rubbing  off  an  inch  or  so  of  skin  from 
Mary  Ann's  nose. 

"  Oh,  Moses ! "  screamed  that  lady. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  Oh,  what  have  you  done  ?  "  cri»d 
Mrs.  Perkins. 

Singularly  enough,  I  didn't  say  anything,  but  got  upon  my 
feet  as  quick  as  I  could,  and  rubbed  my  head,  and  looked  all 
around  but  where  Mrs.  Perkins  and  her  weeping  aid  were 
standing. 

"It's  just  like  a  man.  You  have  made  ten  limes  more 
work  than  you  have  helped.  Mary  Ann,  get  the  floor  cloth. 
And  thcHi's  a  great  sjxit  on  Ihat  il./or  we  '.'an  never  get  oflt 
zz 


22  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

I'd  like  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  I  know  I  should.  I  knew 
when  you  stuck  your  ungainly  carcass  on  that  chair,  you 
would  kill  somebody.  Does  it  hurt  you,  Mary  Ann  ?  I 
wouldn't  rub  it  too  hard ;  we'll  have  to  take  it  up  dry  and 
soap  it  over.  Yo-u  awkward  fool,  didn't  you  know  what  you 
were  doing  ?  Now  take  the  pipe  out  doors,  and  don't  look 
any  more  like  a  smoked  idiot  than  you  can  help." 

The  manner  in  which  this  kst  was  uttered  left  no  room 
to  doubt  that  I  was  the  person  referred  to,  and  I  picked  up 
the  pipe,  and  sorrowfully  propelled  it  out  doors ;  although  I 
am  compelled  to  admit  tliat  six  links  of  pipe  varied  by  two 
elbows  at  opposite  angles,  is  not  the  most  desirable  thing  in 
the  world  to  escort  out  doors. 

When  I  came  back,  Mrs.  Perkins  had  dressed  the  wound 
on  Mary  Ann's  face  with  a  strip  of  brown  paper,  and  told 
me  1  might  help  to  carry  the  stove  into  the  shed,  if  I  was 
sure  of  being  quite  sober. 

Upon  this  invitation  I  took  hold  of  the  range  with  the 
two  ladies,  and  by  loosening  half  a  dozen  joints  in  my  spine, 
I  was  finally  successful  in  getting  the  thing  out  of  the  room. 
But  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion  was  irretrievably  lost.  Mrs. 
Perkins  was  ominously  silent.  Mary  Ann's  air  was  one 
of  reproach  which,  combined  with  the  brown  paper,  gave 
her  an  appearance  of  unearthly  uncertainty. 

At  dinner  that  day  I  ate  some  cold  cabbage  and  a  couple 
of  soda  crackers,  carefully  picking  off  the  flakes  of  soap  that 
adhered  thereto.  This  morning  I  ate  my  breakfast  on  the 
stoop,  and  got  my  dinner  through  the  milk-room  windpw, 
eating  it  from  the  sill.  It  consisted  of  the  last  slice  from 
yesterday's  loaf,  and  two  decrepit  herrings. 

What  we  are  to  have  for  supper,  and  whether  it  will  be 
necessary  to  go  home  after  it,  are  questions  that  depress  me 
this  p.  M. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

The  day  is  ended.  Ere  I  sink  to  sleep, 
My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  thine  ! 

Father,  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine  ! 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  23 

With  loving-kindness  curtain  tliou  my  bed, 
And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgrim  feet ; 

Thy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head : 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord,  and  tliee, 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith  can  shake  1 

All's  well,  whichever  side  the  grave  for  me 
The  morning  light  may  break. 


THE  BURIAL   OF  THE  DANE.— H.  H.  Browxell. 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us. 


=') 


Jjlue  sky  overhead ; 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter, 
We  must  bury  the  deaxi ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor. 

Rugged  of  front  and  form, — 

A  common  son  of  the  forecivstle, 
Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  haile-d  from 
We  know;  and  there's  nothing  more! 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
On  the  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 

Refison  drifting  awreck, 
"  'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"  I  must  go  ujion  deck  !  " 

Ay,  on  deck— by  the  foremast !  — 
But  watch  and  look-out  are  done; 

The  Union-Jack  hud  o'er  him. 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft; 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 


24  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  pages  of  prayer  j 

Let  every  foot  be  quiet, 
Every  head  be  bare  : 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service, 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks,) 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks, — 

"  We  therefore  commit  his  body 
To  the  deej)," — and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather  railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 

The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock. 
Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousand  fethoms, — 
Down  into  the  dark. 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  gulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin  : 
But  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 

There's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  a- weary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 
Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 

Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 
The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  are  all  around  us. 
Blue  sky  bright  overhead: 

Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 
We  have  buried  the  dead. 


IMMORTALITY.— Massillon. 

If  we  wholly  perish  with  the  body,  what  an  imposture  is 
this  whole  system  of  laws,  manners,  and  usages,  on  which 
human  society  is  founded !  If  we  wholly  perish  with  the 
body,  these  maxims  of  charity,  patience,  jiistice,  honor,  grat- 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  25 

ttude,  and  friendshij},  which  sages  have  taught  and  good  men 
have  practised,  what  are  tliey  but  empty  words,  possessing 
no  real  and  binding  efficacy?  Why  should  we  heed  them, 
if  in  this  life  only  we  have  hope  ?  Speak  not  of  duty.  AVhat 
can  we  owe  to  the  dead,  to  the  living,  to  ourselves,  if  all  are, 
or  will  he,  nothing?  Who  shall  dictate  our  duty,  if  not  our 
own  pleasures, — if  not  our  own  passions  ?  Speak  not  of  mor~ 
ality.  It  is  a  mere  chimera,  a  bugbear  of  human  invention, 
if  retribution  terminate  with  the  grave. 

If  we  must  wholly  perish,  what  to  us  are  the  sweet  tias 
of  kindred  r  What  the  tender  names  of  parent,  child,  sister, 
brother,  husband,  wife,  or  friend  ?  The  characters  of  a  drama 
are  not  more  illusive.  We  have  no  ancestors,  no  descend- 
ants ;  since  succession  cannot  be  predicated  of  nothingness. 
Would  we  honor  the  illustrious  dead  ?  How  absurd  to  honor 
that  which  has  no  existence !  Would  we  take  thought  for 
posterity?  How  frivolous  to  concern  ourselves  for  those 
whose  end,  like  our  own,  must  soon  be  annihilation !  Have 
we  made  a  promise?  How  can  it  bind  nothing  to  nothing? 
Perjury  is  but  a  jest.  The  last  injunctions  of  the  dying, — 
what  sanctity  have  they,  more  than  the  last  sound  of  a  chord 
that  is  snapped,  of  an  instrument  that  is  broken  ? 

To  sum  up  all :  If  we  must  wholly  perish,  then  is  obedi- 
ence to  the  laws  but  an  insensate  servitude  ;  rulers  and  mag- 
istrates are  but  the  phantoms  which  jjopular  imbecility  has 
raised  up ;  justice  is  an  unwarrantable  infringement  upon  the 
liberty  of  men, — an  imposition,  a  usurpation  ;  the  law  of  mar- 
riage is  a  vain  scruple ;  modesty,  a  prejudice  ;  honor  and 
probity,  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of;  and  incests,  mur- 
ders, parricides,  the  most  heartless  cruelties  and  the  blackest 
crimes,  are  but  the  legitimate  sports  of  man's  irresponsible 
nature ;  while  the  haryh  epithets  attached  to  them  are  merely 
such  as  the  [)olicy  of  legislators  has  invented,  and  imposed 
on  the  credulity  of  the  people. 

Here  is  the  issue  to  which  the  vaunted  philosophy  of  un- 
believers must  inevitably  lead.  Here  is  that  social  felicity, 
that  sway  of  reason,  that  emantdpation  from  error,  of  which 
they  eternally  prate,  as  the  fruit  of  tneir  doctrines.  Accept 
their  maxims,  and  the  whf)le  world  falls  back  into  a  friglit- 
ful  chaos  ;  and  all  the  relations  of  life  are  confounded  ;   anvl 

aa 


26  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

all  ideas  of  vice  and  virtue  are  reversed ;  and  the  most  in^ 
violable  laws  of  society  vanish ;  and  all  moral  discipline  per- 
ishes ;  and  the  government  of  states  and  nations  has  no 
longer  any  cement  to  uphold  it ;  and  all  the  harmony  of  the 
body  politic  becomes  discord ;  and  the  human  race  is  no 
more  than  an  assemblage  of  reckless  barbarians,  shameless, 
remorseless,  brutal,  denaturalized,  with  no  other  law  than 
force,  no  other  check  than  passion,  no  other  bond  than  irre- 
ligion.  no  other  God  than  self !  Such  would  be  the  world 
which  impiety  would  make.  Such  would  be  this  world,  were 
a  belief  in  God  and  immortality  to  die  out  of  the  human 
heart- 


JOHN  JANKIN'S  SERMON. 

The  minister  said  last  night,  says  he, 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  givin' ; 
If  your  life  ain't  nothin'  to  other  folks, 

Why  what's  the  use  of  livin"?" 
And  that's  what  I  say  to  my  wife,  says  I, 

"  There's  Brown,  that  mis'rable  sinner. 
He'd  sooner  a  beggar  would  starve,  than  give 

A  cent  towards  buyin'  a  dinner." 

I  tell  you  our  minister's  prime,  he  is, 

But  I  couldn't  quite  determine, 
When  I  heard  him  givin'  it  right  and  left, 

Just  who  was  hit  by  the  sermon. 
Of  course  there  couldn't  be  no  mistake, 

When  he  talked  of  long-winded  prayin', 
For  Peters  and  Johnson  they  sot  and  scowled 

At  every  word  he  was  sayin'. 

And  the  minister  he  went  on  to  say, 

"  There's  various  kinds  of  cheatin'. 
And  religion's  as  good  for  every  day 

As  it  is  to  bring  to  meetin'. 
I  don't  think  much  of  a  man  that  gives 

The  loud  Aniens  at  my  preachin'. 
And  spends  his  time  the  followin'  week 

In  cheatin'  and  overreachin'." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  2V 

I  guess  that  dose  was  bitter 

For  a  man  like  Jones  to  swaller ; 
But  I  noticed  he  didn't  open  his  mouth, 

Not  once,  after  that,  to  holler. 
Hurrah,  says  I,  for  the  minister— 

Of  course  I  said  it  quiet — 
Give  us  some  more  of  this  open  talk; 

It's  very  refreshiu'  diet. 

The  minister  hit  'em  every  time ; 

And  when  he  spoke  of  fashion. 
And  a-riggin'  out  in  bows  and  things, 

As  woman's  rulin'  passion. 
And  a-comin'  to  church  to  see  the  stjles, 

I  couldn't  help  a-winkin' 
And  a-nudgin  my  wife,  and  says  I,  "That's  you," 

And  I  guess  it  sot  her  thinkin'. 

Says  I  to  myself,  that  sermon's  pat^ 

But  man  is  a  queer  creation ; 
And  I'm  much  afraid  that  most  o'  the  folks 

Wouldn't  take  the  application. 
Now,  if  he  had  said  a  word  about 

IVIy  personal  mode  o'  sinnin', 
I'd  have  gone  to  work  to  right  myself, 

And  not  set  there  a-grinnin'. 

Just  then  the  minister  says,  says  he, 

"And  now  I've  come  to  the  fellers 
Who've  lost  this  shower  by  iLsin'  their  friends 

As  a  sort  o'  moral  umbrellers. 
Go  home,"  says  he,  "  and  find  your  faults, 

Instead  of  huntin'  your  brothers' ; 
Go  home,"  he  says,  "  and  wear  the  -coats 

You've  tried  to  lit  the  otliers." 

My  wife  she  nudged,  and  Brown  he  winked. 

And  there  was  lots  o'  smilin'', 
And  lots  o'  lookin'  at  our  pew ; 

It  sot  my  blood  a-bilin'. 
Says  I  to  myself,  our  minister 

is  gettin'  a  little  bitter  ; 
I'll  tell  him  when  meetin's  o\it,  that  I 

Ain't  at  all  that  kind  of  a  critter. 

— Harper's  Bazar. 


28  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

ENDURANCE— Elizabeth  Akees. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not  break ! 

How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not  die ! 
I  question  niucli  if  any  pain  or  ache 

Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  erid  more  nigh. 
Death  chooses  his  own  time  ;  till  that  is  worn, 
All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shi](dder  at  the  surgeon's  knife  ; 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  steel, 
Whose  edge  seems  searching  for  the  quivering  life ; 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal 
That  still,  although  the  trembling  flesh  be  torn, 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 

We  seek  some  small  escape — we  weep  and  pray — 
But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts  are  still, 

Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 
But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life — 
We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own — 

Anon  it  faints  and  falls  in  deadly  strife. 

Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken,  and  alone; 

But  ah !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we  mourn — 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things — famine,  thirst, 
Bereavement,  pain  !  all  grief  and  misery, 

All  woe  and  sorrow ;  life  inflicts  its  worst 
On  soul  and  body — but  we  cannot  die. 

Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  and  worn ; 
Lo !  all  things  can  be  borne. 


KATIE  LEE  AND  WILLIE   GREY. 

Two  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls, 
Red  lips  shutting  over  pearls. 
Bare  feet,  white  and  wet  with  dew, 
Two  eyes  black,  and  two  eyes  blue; 
Little  girl  and  boy  were  they, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 


NUMBER    EIGHT*  29 

They  were  standin<r  where  a  brook, 
Bending  like  a  sliepherd's  crook, 
Flashed  its  silver,  and  thick  ranks 
Of  willow  fringed  its  mossy  banks; 
Half  in  thought,  and  half  in  play, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  had  cheeks  bke  cherries  red ; 
He  was  taller— 'most  a  head ; 
She,  with  arms  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
Swung  a  basket  to  and  fro 
As  she  loitered?  half  in  play, 
Chattering  to  Willie  Grey. 

"  Pretty  Katie,"  Willie  said— 
And  there  came  a  dash  of  red 
Through  the  brownness  of  his  cheek — 
"  Boys  are  strong  and  girls  are  weak, 
And' I'll  carry,  so  I  will, 
Katie's  basket  np  the  hill." 

Katie  answered  with  a  laugh, 
"  You  shall  carry  only  half ; " 
And  then,  tossing  back  her  curls, 
"  Boys  are  weak  as  well  as  girls." 
Do  you  think  that  Katie  guessed 
Half  the  wisdom  she  expressed  ? 

Men  are  only  boys  grown  tall ; 
Hearts  don't  change  much,  after  all ; 
And  when,  long  years  from  that  day, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey 
Stood  again  beside  the  brook. 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, — 

Ls  it  strange  that  Willie  said, 

While  again  a  dash  of  red 

Crossed  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 

"  I  am  strong  and  you  are  weak  ; 

Life  is  but  a  slijjpory  steep. 

Hung  with  shadows  cold  and  deep. 

"  Will  vou  trust  me,  Katie  dear,— 
\Va!k  bi'sidc  me  without  fear? 
May  I  carry,  if  I  will. 
All  your  ])iird(!ns  up  the  liill?" 
And  she  answered,  with  a  laugh, 
"  No,  Ijut  you  may  carry  half." 


zz' 


30  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Close  beside  the  little  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Washing  with  its  silver  hands 
Late  and  early  at  the  sands, 
Is  a  cottage,  where  to-day 
Katie  lives  with  Willie  Grey. 

In  a  porch  she  sits,  and  lo ! 
Swings  a  basket  to  and  fro — 
Vastly  different  from  the  one 
That  she  s^Vl^lg  in  years  agone , 
This  is  long  and  deep  and  wide, 
And  has — rockers  at  the  side. 


THE  OLD  FORSAKEN  SCHOOL  HOUSE. 
John  H.  Yates. 

They've  left  the  school-house,  Charley,  where  years  ago  wo 

sat 
And  shot  our  paper  bullets  at  the  mastei-'s  time-worn  hat ; 
The  hook  is  gone  on  which  it  hung,  and  the  master  sleepeth 

now 
Where  school-boy  tricks  can  never  cast  a  shadow  o'er  his 

brow. 

They've  built  a  new,  imposing  one— the  pride  of  all  the  town, 
And   laughing   lads  and   lasses  go  its  broad  sieps  up  and 

down; 
A  tower  crowns  its  summit  with  a  new,  a  monster  bell, 
That  youthful  ears,  in  distant  homes,  may  hear  its  music 

swell. 

I'm  sitting  in  the  old  one,  with  its  battered,  hingeless  door  • 
The  windows  are  all  broken,  and  the  stones  lie  on  the  floor 
I,  alone,  of  all  the  boys  who  romped  and  studied  here, 
Kemain  to  see  it  battered  up  and  left  so  lone  and  drear. 

I'm  sitting  on  the  same  old  bench  where  we  sat  side  by  side 
And  carved  our  names  upon  the  desk,  when  not  by  master 

eyed; 
Since  then  a  dozen  boys  have  sought  their  great  skill  to  dis- 

And,  like  the  foot-prints  on  the  sand,  our  names  have  passed 
away. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  31 

Twas  here  ■we  learned  to  conjugate  "amo,  amas,  amat," 
While  glances  from  the  lasses  made  our  hearts  go  pit-a-jiat ; 
Twas  here  we  fell  in  love,  you  know,  with  girls  who  looked 

us  through — 
Jours  with  her  piercing  eyes  of  black,  and  mine  with  eyes 

of  blue. 

Our  sweethearts — pretty  girls  were  they — to  us  how  very 

dear — 
Bow  down  your  head  with  me,  my  boy,  and  shed  for  them 

a  tear ; 
With  them  the  earthly  school  is  out ;  each  lovely  maid  now 

stands 
Before  the  one  Great  Master,  in  the  "  house  not  made  with 

hands." 

You  tell  me  you  are  far  out  West ;  a  lawyer,  deejt  in  laws, 
With   Joe,   who  sat  behind   us  here,  and  tickled  us  with 

straws ; 
Look  out  for  number  one,  my  boys ;  may  wealth  come  at  your 

touch ; 
But  with  your  long,  strong  legal  straws  don't  tickle  men  too 

much. 

Here,  to  the  right,  sat  Jimmy  Jones  —  you  must  remember 

Jim — 
He's  teaching  now,  and  punishing,  as  master  punished  Iiim  ; 
What  an  unlucky  lad  he  was!  his  sky  was  dark  witli  woes; 
Whoever  did  the  sinning  it  was  Jim  who  got  the  blotvs. 

Those  days  are  all  gone  by,  my  boys ;  life's  hill  we're  goir.g 

down. 
With  here  and  there  a  silver  hair  amid  the  school-boy  brown  ; 
But  memory  can  never  die,  so  we'll  talk  o'er  the  joys 
We  shared  together,  in  this  house,  when  you  and  I  were 

boys. 

Though   ruthless  hands  may  tear  it  down— this  old  house 

lone  and  ilrear, 
They'll  not  destroy  the  characters  that  started  out  from  here  ; 
Time's  angry  waves  may  sweep  the  shore  and  wash  out  ail 

beside : 
Bright  as  the  stars  that  shine  above,  they  shall  for  aye  abide. 

I've  seen  the  new  house,  Charley:    'tis  the  pride  of  all  the 

town, 
And   laughing   lads   and   lasses  go  its  broad  steps  up  and 

down  ; 
But  you  or  T,  my  dear  old  friend,  can't  love  it  lialC  as  well 
As  this  cotnlemned,  forsaken  one,  with  cracked  and  tongue- 

letjs  bell. 


S2  ONB    HUNDEKD    CHOICE    SKLECTION8 

THE  KING  AND  THE  LOCUSTS. 

A   STORY   WITHOUT    AN    END. 

There  was  a  certain  king,  who,  hke  many  other  kings,  was 
very  fond  of  hearing  stories  told.  To  tliis  amusement  he 
gave  up  all  his  time ;  but  yet  he  was  never  satisfied.  All  the 
exertions  of  all  his  courtiers  were  in  vain.  The  more  he 
heard,  the  more  he  wanted  to  hear.  At  last  he  made  a  pro- 
clamation,  that  if  any  man  would  tell  him  a  story  that  should 
last  forever,  he  would  make  him  his  heir,  and  give  him  the 
princess,  his  daughter,  in  marriage  ;  but  if  any  one  should 
pretend  that  he  had  such  a  story,  but  should  fail  —  that  is, 
if  the  story  did  come  to  an  end — he  was  to  have  his  head 
chopped  off. 

For  such  a  rich  prize  as  a  beautiful  princess  and  a  king- 
dom, many  candidates  appeared ;  and  dreadfully  long  stories 
some  of  them  told.  Some  lasted  a  week,  some  a  month, 
some  six  months :  poor  fellows,  they  all  spun  them  out  as 
long  as  they  possibly  could,  you  may  be  sure  ;  but  all  in  vain ; 
sooner  or  later  they  all  came  to  an  end ;  and,  one  after  an- 
other, the  unlucky  story-tellers  had  their  heads  chopped  off. 

At  last  came  a  man  who  said  that  he  had  a  story  which 
would  last  for  ever,  if  his  Majesty  would  be  pleased  to  give 
him  a  trial. 

He  was  warned  of  his  danger:  they  told  him  how  many 
others  had  tried,  and  lost  their  heads ;  but  he  said  he  was 
not  afraid,  and  so  he  was  brought  before  the  king.  He  was 
a  man  of  a  very  composed  and  deliberate  manner  of  speak- 
ing; and,  after  making  all  requisite  stipulations  for  time  for 
his  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping,  he  thus  began  his  story : 

"  0  king!  there  was  once  a  king  who  was  a  great  tyrant; 
and,  desiring  to  increase  his  riches,  he  seized  upon  all  the 
corn  and  grain  in  his  kingdom,  and  put  it  into  an  immense 
granary,  which  he  built  on  purpose,  as  high  as  a  mountain. 

"  This  he  did  for  several  years,  till  the  granary  was  quite 
full  up  to  the  top.  He  then  stopped  up  doors  and  windows, 
and  closed  it  up  fast  on  all  sides. 

"  But  the  bricklayers  had,  by  accident,  left  a  very  small 
hole  near  the  top  of  the  granary.     And  there  came  a  flight 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  33 

of  locusts,  and  tried  to  get  at  the  corn  ;  but  the  hole  was  so 
small  that  only  one  locust  could  pass  through  it  at  a  time. 
So  o)ie  locust  went  in  and  carried  oft"  one  grain  of  corn  ;  and 
then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  oft'  another  grain  of 
corn  ;  and  then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  oQ' another 
grain  of  corn ;  and  then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried 
off  another  grain  of  corn ;  and  then  another  locust  went  in 
and  carried  oft"  another  grain  of  corn ;  and  then  another  locust 
went  in  and  carried  oft"  another  grain  of  corn ;  and  then  an- 
other locust  went  in  and  carried  off  another  grain  of  corn — " 

He  had  gone  on  thus  from  morning  to  night  (except  while 
he  was  engaged  at  his  meals)  for  about  a  month ;  when  the 
king,  though  a  very  patient  king,  began  to  be  rather  tired  of 
the  locusts,  and  interrupted  his  story  with : "  Well,well,we  have 
had  enough  of  the  locusts ;  we  will  suppose  that  they  have 
helped  themselves  to  all  the  corn  they  wanted ;  tell  us  what 
happened  afterwards."  To  which  the  story-teller  answered, 
very  deliberately,  "  If  it  please  your  Majesty,  it  is  impossible 
to  tell  you  what  happened  afterwards  before  I  have  told  you 
what  happened  first."  And  so  he  went  on  again  ;  "  And 
then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  off  another  grain  of 
corn ;  and  then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  off  another 
grain  of  corn;  and  then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried 
off  another  grain  of  corn."  The  king  listened  with  admirable 
patience  six  months  more,  when  he  again  interrupted  him 
with:"0  friend !  I  am  weary  of  your  locusts !  How  soon  do 
you  think  they  will  have  done?"  To  which  the  story-tellei- 
made  answer :  "  O  king !  who  can  tell  ?  At  the  time  to 
which  my  story  has  come,  the  locusts  have  cleared  away  a 
small  space,  it  may  be  a  cubit,  each  way  round  the  inside  of 
the  hole ;  and  the  air  is  still  dark  with  locusts  on  all  sides ; 
but  let  the  king  have  patience,  and,  no  doul)t,  we  shall  come 
to  the  end  of  tlunn  in  time." 

Thas  encouraged,  the  king  listened  on  for  another  full 
year,  the  story-teller  still  going  on  as  before :  "And  then  an- 
otlier  locust  wont  in  and  carried  off  another  ^rain  of  corn  ;  and 
then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  off  anothir  grain  of 
corn  ;  and  then  another  locust  went  in  and  carried  off  another 
grain  of  corn,"  till  at  last  the  i)oor  king  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  cried  out :  "  O  man,  that  is  enough  1  Take  my 
3  68* 


34  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

daughter  !  take  my  kingdom  !  take  anything — take  every- 
thing !  only  let  lis  hear  no  more  of  those  abominable  lo- 
custs ! " 

And  so  the  story-teller  was  married  to  the  king's  daughter, 
and  was  declared  heir  to  the  throne ;  and  nobody  ever  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  hear  the  rest  of  his  story,  for  he  said  it 
was  impossible  to  come  to  the  other  part  of  it  till  he  had 
done  with  the  locusts.  The  unreasonable  caprice  of  the 
foolish  king  was  thus  overmatched  by  the  ingenious  device 
of  the  wise  man. 


ABRAM  AND  ZIMRI.— Clarence  Cook. 

Abram  and  Zimri  owned  a  field  together — 

A  level  field  hid  in  a  happy  vale ; 

They  plowed  it  with  one  plow,  and  in  the  spring 

Sowed,  walking  side  by  side,  the  fruitful  seed. 

In  harvest,  when  the  glad  earth  smiled  with  grain. 

Each  carried  to  his  home  one-half  the  sheaves, 

And  stored  them  with  much  labor  in  his  barns. 

Now,  Abram  had  a  wife  and  seven  sons, 

But  Zimri  dwelt  alone  within  his  house. 

One  night,  before  the  sheaves  were  gathered  in, 

As  Zimri  lay  upon  his  lonely  bed 

And  counted  in  his  mind  his  little'gains, 

He  thought  upon  his  brother  Abram's  lot. 

And  said,  "  I  dwell  alone  within  my  house, 

But  Abram  hath  a  wife  and  seven  sons, 

A  nd  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 

He  surely  needeth  more  for  life  than  I ; 

I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 

Down  to  the  field,  and  add  to  his  from  mine." 

So  he  arose,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 

And  went  out  softly  to  the  level  field ; 

The  moon  shone  out  from  dusky  bars  of  clouds. 

The  trees  stood  black  against  the  cold  blue  sky, 

The  branches  waved  and  whispered  in  the  wind. 

So  Zimri,  guided  by  the  shifting  light. 

Went  down  the  mountain  path,  and  found  the  field, 

Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 

And  bore  them  gladly  to  his  brother's  heap, 

And  then  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  35 


Now,  that  same  night,  as  Abrain  hxy  in  bed, 

Thinking  npun  his  bhssful  state  in  life. 

He  thouirht  upon  liis  brotlier  Zimri's  lot, 

And  said,  "  He  dwells  within  his  house  alone, 

He  goeth  forth  to  toil  with  few  to  lielp, 

He  goeth  home  at  night  to  a  cold  house, 

And  hath  few  other  friends  but  me  and  mine," 

(For  tliese  two  tilled  the  happy  vale  alone,) 

"  While  I,  whom  Heaven  hath  very  greatly  blessed, 

Dwell  happy  with  my  wife  and  seven  sons, 

Who  aid  me  in  my  toil  and  make  it  light, 

And  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 

This  surely  is  not  pleasing  unto  God ; 

I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 

Out  to  the  tield,  and  borrow  from  my  store, 

And  add  unto  my  brother  Zimri's  pile." 

So  he  arose  and  girded  up  his  loins, 

And  went  down  softly  to  the  level  field ; 

The  moon  shone  out  from  silver  bars  of  clouds, 

The  trees  stood  blank  against  the  starry  sky, 

The  dark  leaves  waved  and  whisi)ered  in  the  breeze. 

So  Abram,  guided  by  the  doubtful  light. 

Passed  down  the  mountain  path  and  found  the  field, 

Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 

And  added  them  unto  his  brother's  heap ; 

Then  he  went  back  to  sleej)  and  happy  dreams. 

So  the  next  morning  with  the  early  sun 
The  brothers  rose,  and  went  out  to  their  toil ; 
And  when  they  came  to  see  the  heavy  sheaves, 
Each  wondered  in  his  heart  to  find  his  heap, 
Though  he  had  given  a  third,  was  still  the  same. 

Now,  the  next  night  went  Zimri  to  the  field, 
T<jok  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  share. 
And  placed  them  on  his  brother  Abram's  heap, 
And  then  lay  down  behind  his  pile  to  watch. 
The  moon  looked  out  from  bars  of  silvery  cloud, 
The  cedars  stood  up  black  against  the  sky, 
The  olive  branches  whispered  in  the  wind. 

Then  Abram  came  down  softly  from  his  home. 

And,  looking  to  the  right  and  left,  went  on  ; 

T<jok  from  his  ample  store  a  generous  third. 

And  laid  it  on  his  brother  Zimri's  jnle. 

Then  Zimri  rose,  and  caught  him  in  his  arms, 

And  wept  upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  cheek; 

And  Abram  saw  the  whole,  and  could  not  s[)eak, 

Neither  could  Zimri.     So  they  waIU('<l  along 

Back  to  their  iionies,  and  tlianked  their  (Jod  in  prayoi 

That  he  had  bound  them  in  such  loving  bands. 


36  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


A  COQUETTE  PUNISHED. 

Ellen  was  fair,  and  knew  it,  too, 
As  other  village  beauties  do, 

Whose  mirrors  never  lie  ; 
Secure  of  any  swain  she  chose, 
She  smiled  on  half  a  dozen  beaux, 
And,  reckless  of  a  lover's  woes. 
She  cheated  these  and  taunted  those, 
"  For  how  could  any  one  suppose 

A  clown  could  take  her  eye  ?  " 

But  whispers  through  the  village  ran 
That  Edgar  was  the  happy  man 

The  maid  designed  to  bless ;  _ 
For  wheresoever  moved  the  fair, 
The  youth  was,  like  her  shadow,  there, 
And  rumor  boldly  matched  the  pair, 

For  village  folks  will  guess. 

Edgar  did  love,  but  was  afraid 
To  make  confession  to  the  maid, 

So  bashful  was  the  youth : 
Certain  to  meet  a  kind  return, 
He  let  the  flame  in  secret  burn, 
Till  from  his  lips  the  maid  should  learn 

Officially  the  truth. 

At  length,  one  morn  to  take  the  air,     _ 
The  youth  and  maid,  in  one-horse  chair, 

A  long  excursion  took. 
Edgar  had  nerved  his  bashful  heart 
The  sweet  confession  to  impart. 
For  ah !  suspense  had  caused  a  smart 

He  could  no  longer  brook. 

He  drove,  nor  slackened  once  his  reins, 
Till  Hempstead's  wide-extended  plains 

Seemed  joined  to  skies  above ; 
Nor  house,  nor  tree,  nor  shrub  was  near 
The  rude  and  dreary  scene  to  cheer, 
Nor  soul  within  ten  miles  to  hear, 
And  still  poor  Edgar's  silly  fear 

Forbade  to  speak  of  love. 

At  last  one  desperate  effort  broke 
The  bashful  spell,  and  Edgar  spoke 
With  most  persuasive  tone ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  37 

Recounted  past  attendance  o'er 
And  then,  by  all  that's  lovely,  swore 
That  he  would  love  forever  more, 
If  she'd  become  his  own. 

The  maid  in  silence  heard  his  prayer, 
Then,  Vith  a  most  provoking  air. 

She  tittered  in  his  face  : 
And  said,  "  'Tis  timo  for  you  to  know 
A  lively  girl  must  have  a  beau, 
Just  like  a  reticule — for  show : 
And  at  her  nod  to  come  and  go ; 

But  he  should  know  his  place. 

"  Your  penetration  must  be  dull 
To  let  a  hope  within  your  skull 

Of  matrimony  spring. 
Your  wife?  ha,  ha  !  uiton  my  word. 
The  thought  is  laughably  absurd 
As  anything  I  ever  heard — 

I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing ! " 

The  lover  sudden  dropped  his  rein 
When  on  the  centre  of  the  plain  ; 

"  The  linch-pin's  out ! "  he  cried ; 
"  Be  pleased  one  moment  to  alight, 
Till  I  can  set  the  matter  right, 

That  we  may  safely  ride," 

He  said,  and  handed  out  the  fair ; 
Then  laughing,  cracked  his  whip  in  air, 
And  wheeling  round  his  horse  and  chair, 
Exc;laimed,  "Adieu,  I  leave  you  there, 

In  solitude  to  roam." 
"  What  mean  you,  sir?  "  the  maiden  cried, 
"  Did  you  invite  me  out  to  ride. 
To  leave  me  here  without  a  guide? 

Nay,  stop,  and  take  me  home." 

"  What !  take  you  home  ! "  exclaimed  the  beau ; 
"Indeed,  my  (fear,  I'd  like  to  know 
How  such  a  hopeless  wish  could  grow. 

Or  in  your  bosom  spring. 
What !  take  Ellon  home  I  ha,  ha !  upon  my  word. 
The  thought  is  laughably  absurd 
As  any  thing  I  ever  heard — 

I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing ! " 


38  ONE    HUNDEED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THE  DISHONEST  POLITICIAN.— H.  W.  Beecher. 

If  there  be  a  man  on  earth  whose  character  should  be 
framed  of  the  most  sterhng  honesty,  and  whose  conduct 
should  conform  to  the  most  scrupulous  morality,  it  is  the  man 
who  administers  public  aifairs.  The  most  romantic  notions 
of  integrity  are  here  not  extravagant.  As,  under  our  insti- 
tutions, public  men  will  be,  upon  the  whole,  fair  exponents 
of  the  character  of  their  constituents,  the  plainest  way  to 
secure  honest  jjublic  men  is  to  inspire  those  who  make  them 
with  a  right  understanding  of  what  political  character  ought 
to  be. 

The  lowest  of  politicians  is  that  man  who  seeks  to  gratify 
an  invariable  selfishness  by  pretending  to  seek  the  ijublic 
good.  For  a  profitable  popularity,  he  accommodates  him- 
self to  all  opinions,  to  all  dispositions,  to  every  side,  and  to 
each  prejudice.  He  is  a  mirror,  with  no  flice  of  its  own,  but 
a  smooth  surface  from  which  each  man  of  ten  thousand  may 
see  himself  reflected.  He  glides  from  man  to  man,  coincid- 
ing with  their  views,  pretending  their  feelings,  simulating 
their  tastes ;  with  this  one,  he  hates  a  man ;  with  that  one, 
he  loves  the  same  man ;  he  favors  a  law,  and  he  dislikes  it ; 
he  approves,  and  opposes ;  he  is  on  both  sides  at  once,  and 
seemingly  wishes  that  he  could  be  on  one  side  more  than 
both  sides. 

He  has  associated  his  ambition,  his  interests,  and  his  affec- 
tions, with  a  party.  He  prefers,  doubtless,  that  his  side 
should  be  victorious  by  thebest  means,  and  under  the  cham- 
pionship of  good  men ;  but  rather  than  lose  the  victory,  he 
will  consent  to  any  means,  and  follow  any  man.  Thus,  with 
a  general  desire  to  be  upright,  the  exigency  of  his  party  con- 
stantly pushes  him  to  dishonorable  deeds.  He  gradually 
adopts  two  characters,  a  personal  and  a  political  character. 
All  the  requisitions  of  his  conscience  he  obeys  in  his  private 
character ;  all  the  requisitions  of  his  party  he  obeys  in  his 
political  conduct.  In  one  character  he  is  a  man  of  princi- 
ple ;  in  the  other,  a  man  of  mere  expedients.  As  a  man,  he 
means  to  be  veracious,  honest,  moral ;  as  a  politician,  he  is 
deceitful,  cunning,  unscrupulous,—  anything  for  i)arty.      As  a 


NUMBEK    EIGHT.  39 

man,  he  abhors  the  sHmy  demagogue ;  as  a  politician,  he 
emploj'S  him  as  a  scavenger.  As  a  man,  he  shrinks  from  the 
flagitiousness  of  shmder;  as  a  pohtician,  he  permits  it,  smiles 
upon  it  in  others,  rejoices  in  the  success  gained  by  it.  As  a 
man,  he  respects  no  one  who  is  rotten  in  heart ;  as  a  politi- 
cian, no  man  through  whom  victory  may  be  gained  can  be 
too  bad. 

For  his  religion  he  will  give  up  all  his  secular  interests ; 
but  for  his  politics  he  gives  up  even  his  religion.  He  adores 
virtue,  and  rewards  vice.  Whilst  bolstering  up  unrighteous 
measures,  and  more  unrighteous  men,  he  prays  for  the  ad- 
vancement of  religion,  and  justice,  and  honor!  I  would  to 
God  that  his  prayer  might  be  answered  upon  his  own  polit- 
ical head ;  for  never  was  there  a  place  where  such  blessings 
were  more  needed !  What  a  heart  has  that  man,  who  can 
stand  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Bible,  with  its  transcendent 
truths  raising  their  glowing  fronts  on  every  side  of  him,  and 
feel  no  inspiration  but  that  of  immorality  and  meanness ! 
Do  not  tell  me  of  any  excuses !  It  is  a  shame  to  attempt  an 
excuse  !  If  there  were  no  religion  ;  if  that  vast  sphere,  out 
of  which  glow  all  the  supereminent  truths  of  the  Bible,  was 
a  mere  emptiness  and  void ;  yet,  methinks,  the  very  idea  of 
Fatherland,  the  exceeding  preciousness  of  the  laws  and  lib- 
erties of  a  great  people,  would  enkindle  such  a  high  and 
noble  enthusiasm  that  all  baser  feelings  would  be  consumed ! 
But  if  the  love  of  country,  a  sense  of  character,  a  manly  re- 
gard for  integrity,  the  example  of  our  most  illustrious  men, 
the  warnings  of  religion  and  all  its  solicitations,  and  the 
prospect  of  the  future,  cannot  inspire  a  man  to  anything 
higher  than  a  sneaking,  truckling,  dodging  scramble  for 
fraudulent  fame  and  dishonest  bread,  it  is  because  such  a 
creature  has  never  felt  one  sensation  of  manly  virtue  ;  —  it 
is  because  his  heart  is  a  howling  wilderness,  inhospitable  to 
innocence. 


40  ONE   UUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS. 

TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL   GLOBE. 

BY    A   MISERABLE   WRETCH.* 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  jsathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on ! 
What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case  ? 
What  though  I  cartnot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills? 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on ! 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on ! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on ! 
It's  true  I've  got  no  shirts  to  wear ; 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due  ; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue — 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you ! 
Never  yoa  mind ! 

Roll  on! 


[/i  rolh  on.l 


*\\ 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  TRUTH. 

It  chanced  a  farmer,  with  his  son, 

From  market  walked,  their  labor  done. 

The  son,  in  travels  far  abroad. 

With  scenes  remote  his  mind  had  stored  ; 

Yet  home  returning  not  more  wise, 

Though  richer  in  amusing  I'ies. 

A  mastiff  dog  now  passed  them  by. 

And  caught  the  son's  admiring  eye. 

"This  dog,"  he  said,  "  puts  me  in  mind 

Of  one  far  nobler  of  its  kind, 

Which  in  my  travels  once  I  met, 

Larger  than  any  known  as  yet ; 

It  was,  I  think,  as  large,  indeed. 

As  neighbor  Stedman's  famous  steed ; 

I'm  sure  you  never  had  a  horse 

To  riv:il  it  in  size  or  force." 

S.  GilLiert,  Autliur  of  "  Yani  of  the  Naacy  Boll."      Sue  No.  7,  p.  lU. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  41 

"  Your  tale  is  marvelous,  my  son, 
But  think,  not  yours  tlie  only  one  ; 
For  I  a  prodigy  can  tell, 
To  match  your  story  wondrous  well : 
A  bridge  we  come  to,  by-and-by, 
That  lets  down  all  who  tell  a  lie ; 
Down  to  the  gulf  below  they  fall, 
And  vainly  for  deliverance  call. 
'Tis  said  none  ever  yet  could  find 
The  artist  who  this  work  designed ; 
But  sure  it  is  this  very  day 
We  both  must  cross  it  in  our  way." 

The  startled  youth  turned  deadly  pale, 

Astonislied  at  the  fearful  talc. 

"  Nay,  father,  I  have  said  too  much, 

'Tis  clear  the  case  could  not  be  such ; 

For  I  remember  being  told 

The  dog  was  only  nine  months  old; 

And  yet  it  was  a  creature  rare, 

To  which  no  others  could  compare  ; 

I'm  confident  that  it  was  quite 

Your  very  tallest  heifer's  height." 

As  nearer  to  the  bridge  they  pressed, 
Again  his  sire  the  youth  addressed: 
"  Large  as  our  heifer,  did  I  say, 
The  dog  I  met  the  other  day? 
Nay,  for  that  matter,  you're  too  wise 
To  think  a  dog  could  be  that  size ; 
But  I  could  on  my  honor  state 
That  it  was  jiretty  near  as  great, 
And,  if  I  may  believe  my  eyes, 
Just  like  a  full-grown  calf  in  size." 

The  fatal  bridge  now  close  at  hand. 
The  stripling  makes  a  final  stand : 
"  Father,  at  what  a  rate  you  walk  ! 
Is  this  the  bridge  of  which  you  talk? 
Hear  me,  the  truth  I  will  declare  : 
This  foreign  dog  was  not  so  rare. 
But  much  like  others  in  its  size, 
With  nothing  to  create  surprise." 

The  Bridge  thus  brought  him  to  the  test, 
And  all  his  falsehoods  were  confessed ! 

Tliere  is  a  bridge  which  must  be  passed 
Wy  one  and  all  of  us  at  last ; 
To  those  whose  "refuge  is  in  lies," 
'Twill  be,  alas!  a  "bridge  of  sighs." 


42  ONE. HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Beneath  it  is  a  gulf  of  woe, 
Wiiei-e  those  who  "  love  a  lie  "  must  go ; 
But  over  on  the  other  side, 
A  beauteous  prospect,  far  and  wide. 
Once  landed  on  this  fearful  bridge, 
One  step  advanced  upon  its  ridge. 
Eternal  Truth,  without  disguise, 
Will  burst  upon  our  startled  eyes. 
May  He  who  is  the  Way,  the  Truth, 
Direct  aright  the  steps  of  youth. 
To  do  what's  pleasing  in  his  eyes, 
And  "  false  ways  "  utterly  despise. 


WANTED— A  PASTOR. 


He  must  be  young  in  years,  in  wisdom  old ; 
His  heart  transmuted  into  purest  gold ; 
Fervent  in  prayer,  calm,  earnest,  modest,  meek, 
Yet  ever  bold  the  gospel  truth  to  speak. 

Solemn,  yet  social ;  thoughtful,  yet  nrbane ; 
His  dignity  most  careful  to  maintain  ; 
To  suit  the  elders  he  must  be  "  true  blue," 
To  please  the  young  folks,  must  be  "jolly"  too. 

His  preaching  must  be  brilliant,  yet  profound ; 
Theology,  the  soundest  of  the  sound  ; 
Must  prove  his  doctrine  back  from  Paul  to  Moses, 
Then  down  to  Calvin,  ere  his  sermon  closes. 

He  must  be  trained  to  speaking  extempore, 
Yet  ne'er  repeat  his  phrases  o'er  and  o'er ; 
And  when  we  want  a  written  sermon,  then 
Must  wield  a  graceful  and  a  practised  pen. 

While  hurling  forth  the  thunders  of  the  law,  ^^ 

With  honeyed  sweetness  mus;t  be  skilled  to  "  draw ; 
Must  be  a  potent  instrument  to  use 
In  filling  up  a  score  of  empty  pews. 

I^Iust  preach  two  rousing  sermons  every  Sunday, 
And  feel  the  fresher  each  succeeding  Monday  ; 
lust  bring  to  every  Wednesday  evening  meeting 
burdened  heart,  yet  cheerful  Christian  greetmg. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  43 


Prompt  ever  to  suppress  unchristian  schisms. 
Quick  always  to  detect  unlicensed  'isms, 
He  must  reserve  the  hardest  of  his  knocks 
To  hurl  against  the  rank  "  unorthodox." 

His  heart  replete  with  every  saintly  grace, 
A  holy  calm  must  rest  upon  his  face  ; 
With  soul  exalted  to  the  sacred  skies, 
He  must  be  planning  to  "  economize." 

And  ere  he  break  to  us  the  bread  of  life. 
He  must  be  furnished  with  a  comely  wife. 
For  children  he  must  thank  the  gracious  Giver, 
Yet  not  be  burdened  with  too  full  a  quiver. 

If,  Rev'rend  Sir,  this  scrap  should  meet  your  eye 
"While  looking  for  a  pulpit,  please  apjjly ; 
For,  wtto  voce,  we'll  confess  to  you 
We're  sore  perplexed  and  know  not  what  to  do. 


OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE,  NANCY. 
Will  M.  Carleton.* 

Out  of  the  old  house,  Nancy — moved  up  into  the  new ; 
All  the  hurry  and  worry  are  just  as  good  as  through ; 
Only  a  bounden  duty  remains  for  you  and  I, 
And  that's  to  stand  on  the  door-step,  here,  and  bid  tlie  old 
house  good-bye. 

What  a  shell  we've  lived  in,  these  nineteen  or  twenty  years  1 
Wonder  it  hadn't  smashed  in  and  tumbled  about  our  ears; 
Wonder  it  stuck  togctlier  and  answered  till  to-day, 
But  every  individual  log  was  put  up  here  to  stay. 

Tilings  looked  rather  new,  though,  when  this  old  house  was 

built, 
And   things  that  blossomed  you,  would  have  made  some 

women  wilt ; 
And  every  other  day,  then,  as  sure  as  day  would  break. 
My  neighbor  Ager  come  this  way,  invitin'  me  to  "  shake." 

And  you,   for  want  of  neighbors,  was  sometimes  blue  and 

sad, 
Fur  wolves  and  bears  and  wildcats  was  the  nearest  ones  vou 

h:id; 


*AiitlH.r  ..(  "  Jt.'tii.v  and  I  are  Out,"  "Over  the  Hill  tu  the  J'uor-Uouse,"  Ac- 
See  No.  4,  iJi>.  '27  ami  ll'J. 


44  ONE     IIUNDUED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS, 

But  lookin'   ahead  to  the  clearin',  we  worked  with  all  our 

might, 
Until  we  was  £iirly  out  of  the  woods,  and  things  was  goin' 

right. 

Look  up  there  at  our  new  house, — ain't  it  a  thing  to  see? 

Tall  and  big  and  handsome,  and  new  iis  new  can  be  ; 

All  in  apple-pie  order,  especially  the  shelves. 

And  never  a  debtor  to  say  but  what  we  own  it  all  ourselves. 

Look  at  our  old  log  house — how  little  it  now  appears! 
Put  it's  never  gone  back  on  us,  for  nineteen  or  twenty  years  ,• 
An'  I  won't  go  back  on  it  now,  or  go  to  pokin'  fun, 
There's  such  a  thing  as  praisin'  a  thing  for  the  good  that  it 
has  done. 

Probably  you  remember  how  rich  we  was  that  night. 
When  we  was  fairly  settled,  an'  had  things  snug  and  tight ; 
We  feel  as  proud  as  you  please,  Nancy,  over  our  house  that's 

new, 
3ut  we   felt  as  proud  under  this  old  roof,  and  a  good  deal 

prouder,  too. 

f^ever  a  handsomer  house  was  seen  beneath  the  sun, — 
Kitchen  and  parlor  and  bedroom,  we  had  'em  all  in  one  ; 
And  the  fat  old  wooden  clock  that  we  bought  when  we  come 

West, 
Was  tickin'  away  in  the  corner  there,  an'  doin'  its  level  best. 

Trees  was  all  around  us,  a  whisperin'  cheering  words, 

Loud  was  the  squirrel's  chatter,  and  sweet  the  song  of  birds; 

And  home  grew  sweeter  and  brighter — our  courage  began  to 
mount — 

And  things  looked  hearty  and  happy,  then,  and  work  ap- 
peared to  count. 

And  here,  one  night  it  happened,  when  things  was  goin' bad, 
We  fell  in  a  deep  old  quarrel — the  first  we  ever  had ; 
And  when  you  give  out  and  cried,  then  I  like  a  fool  give  in, 
An'  then  we  agreed  to  rub  all  out,  and  start  the  thing  ag'in. 

* 
Here  it  was,  you  remember,  we  sat  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  you  was  a  makin'  clothing  that  wasn't  for  either  one ; 
And  often  a  soft  word  of  love  I  was  soft  enough  to  say, 
And  the  wolves  was  howliu'  in  the  woods  not  twenty  rods 
away. 

Then  our  first-born  baby — a  regular  little  joy — 

Though  I  fretted  a  little,  because  it  wasn't  a  boy; 

Wa'n't  she  a  little  flirt,   though,  with  all  her  pouts  and 

smiles? 
Why,  settlers  come  to  see  that  show,  a  half  a  dozen  miles. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  45 

Yonder  sat  the  cradle — a  homely,  home-made  thing; 
And  many  a  Jiight  I  rocked  it,  providin'  you  would  sing  ; 
And  many  a  little  squatter  brought  up  with  us  to  stay. 
And  so  that  cradle,  for  many  a  year,  was  never  put  away. 

How  they  kept  a  comin' — so  cunnin'  and  fat  and  small ! 
How  they  growed !    'twas  a  wonder  how  we  found  room  for 

'em  all ; 
But   though  the  house  was  crowded,  it  empty  seemed  that 

day, 
When  Jennie  lay  by  the  fire-place,  there,  and  moaned  her 

life  away. 

And  right  in  there,  the  preacher,  with  Bible  and  hymn-book 

stood, 
"  'Twixt  the  dead  and  the  living,"  and  "  hoped  'twould  do  us 

good." 
And  the  little  whitewood  coffin  on  the  taljle  there  was  set, 
And  now  as  I  rub  my  eyes  it  seems  as  if  I  could  see  it  yet. 

Then  that  fit  of  sickness  it  brought  on  you,  yon  know ; 
Just  by  a  thread  you  hung,  and  you  e'en  a'most  let  go  ; 
And  here  is  the  spot  I  tumbled,  and  give  the  Lord  Hit;  due, 
AVlien  the  doctor  said  the  fever'd  turned,  an'  he  could  fetch 
you  through. 

Yes,  a  deal  has  happened  to  make  this  old  house  dear : 
Christenin's,  funerals,  weddin's— what  haven't  we  had  here? 
Not  a  log  in  this  buildin'  but  its  memories  has  got, — 
And  not  a  nail  in  this  old  floor  but  touches  a  tender  spot. 

Out  of  the  old  house,  Nancy — moved  up  into  the  new; 
All  the  hurry  and  worry  is  just  as  good  as  through  ; 
But  I  tell  you  a  thing  right  here,  that  I  ain't  ashamed  to  say : 
There's  precious  things  in  this  old  house,  we  never  can  take 
away. 

Here  the  old  house  will  stand,  but  not  as  it  stood  before ; 
AVinds  will  whittle  through  it  and  rains  will  flood  the  floor; 
And  over  the  hearth  imce  blazing,  the  snow  drifts  oft  will 

pile. 
And  the  old  thing  will  seem  to  be  a  mournin'  all  the  while. 

Fare  you  well,  old  house!  you're  naught  that  can  feel  or  see, 
But  you  seem  like  -^  liiunan  being — a  dear  old  friend  to  me; 
And    we    never   will    have   a   better   home,   if  iny  opinion 

stands. 
Until  we  commence  a  keepin'  house  in  the  "  house  not  mado 

with  hands." 
2a  A 


46  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 


MELTING    MO^IENTS. 

One  winter  evening,  a  country  storekeeper  in  the  Green 
^Mountain  State  was  about  closing  his  doors  for  the  night, 
when,  while  standing  in  the  snow  outside,  putting  up  his  win- 
dow-shutters, he  saw  through  the  glass  a  lounging,  worthless 
'  fellow  within  take  half  a  pound  of  fresh  butter  from  the 
shelf,  and  hastily  conceal  it  in  his  hat. 

Tlie  act  was  no  sooner  detected  than  the  revenge  was  hit 
upon,  and  a  very  few  moments  found  the  Green  Mountain 
storekeeper  at  once  indulging  his  appetite  for  fun  to  the 
fullest  extent,  and  paying  off  the  thief  with  a  facetious  sort 
of  torture,  for  which  he  might  have  gained  a  premium  from 
the  old  Inquisition, 

"  Stay,  Seth  !  "  said  the  storekeeper,  coming  in,  and  closing 
the  door  after  him,  slapping  his  hands  over  his  shoulders, 
and  stamping  the  snow  off  his  shoes. 

Seth  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  and  his  hat  upon  his  head, 
and  the  roll  of  butter  in  his  hat,  anxious  to  make  his  exit  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"  Seth,  we'll  have  a  little  warm  Santa  Cruz,"  said  the  Green 
Mountain  grocer,  as  he  opened  the  stove  door,  and  stuffed  in 
as  many  sticks  as  the  space  would  admit.  Without  it,  you'd 
freeze  going  home  such  a  night  as  this." 

Seth  felt  very  uncertain ;  he  had  the  butter,  and  was  ex- 
ceedingly anxious  to  be  off,  but  the  temptation  of  "  some- 
thing warm  "  sadly  interfered  with  his  resolution  to  go.  This 
hesitation,  however,  was  soon  settled  by  the  right  owner  of 
the  butter  taking  Seth  by  the  shoulders  and  planting  him 
in  a  seat  close  to  the  stove,  where  he  was  in  such  a  manner 
cornered  in  by  barrels  and  boxes  that,  while  the  country  gro- 
cer sat  before  him,  there  was  no  possibility  of  his  getting  out ; 
and  right  in  this  very  i^lace,  sure  enough,  the  storekeeper  sat 
down. 

Seth  already  felt  the  butter  settling  down  closer  to  his 
hair,  and  declared  he  must  go. 

"  Not  till  you  have  something  warm,  Seth.  Come,  I've  got 
a  story  to  tell  you,  Seth  ;  sit  down  now."  And  Seth  was 
again  pushed  into  his  seat  by  his  cunning  tormentor. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  47 

"  Oh,  it's  too  hot  here ! "  said  the  petty  thief,  again  attempt- 
ing to  ri.se. 

"  I  say,  Seth,  sit  do\m  ;  I  reelvon  now,  on  sucli  a  night  as 
this,  a  httle  something  warm  wouldn't  hurt  a  fellow  ;  come, 
sit  down." 

"  Sit  down, — don't  be  in  such  a  plaguy  hurry,"  repeated  the 
gi'ocer,  pushing  him  back  into  his  chair. 

"  But  I've  got  the  cows  to  fodder,  and  some  wood  to  split, 
and  I  must  be  a  goin',"  continued  the  persecuted  chap. 

"But  you  mustn't  tear  yourself  away,  Seth,iu  this  manner. 
Sit  down ;  let  the  cows  take  care  of  themselves,  and  keep 
yourself  cool ;  you  ^appear  to  be  fidgety,"  said  the  grocer,  with 
a  wicked  leer. 

The  next  thing  was  the  production  of  two  smoking  glasses 
of  hot  rum  toddy,  the  very  sight  of  which  in  Seth's  pres- 
ent situation  would  have  made  the  hair  stand  erect  upon  his 
head,  had  it  not  been  oiled  and  kept  down  by  the  butter. 

"  Seth,  I'll  give  you  a  toast  now,  and  you  can  butter  it  your- 
self," said  the  grocer,  yet  with  an  air  of  such  consummate 
simplicity,  that  poor  Seth  still  believed  himself  unsuspected. 
"  Seth,  here's — ^here's  a  Christmas  goose,  well  roasted  and 
basted,  eh?  I  tell  you,  Seth,  it's  the  greatest  eating  in  crea- 
tion. And,  Seth,  don't  you  use  hog's  fat  or  common  cooking 
butter  to  baste  a  goose  with.  Come,  take  your  butter  —  I 
mean,  Seth,  take  your  toddy." 

Poor  Seth  now  began  to  smoke  as  well  as  to  melt,  and  his 
mouth  was  as  hermetically  sealed  up  as  though  he  had  been 
born  dumb.  Streak  after  streak  of  the  butter  came  pouring 
from  under  his  hat,  and  his  handkerchief  was  already  soaked 
with  the  greasy  overflow.  Talking  away  as  if  nothing  was 
the  matter,  the  grocer  kejjt  stuffing  the  wood  in  the  stove, 
while  poor  Seth  sat  bolt  upright  with  his  back  against  the 
counter,  and  his  knees  almost  touching  the  red-hot  furnace 
Vjefore  him. 

"  Very  cold  night  this,"  said  the  grocer.  "  AVhy,  Seth,  you 
seem  to  perspire  as  if  you  were  warm !  Why  don't  you  take 
your  hat  off?    Here,  let  me  put  your  hat  away." 

"No ! "  exclaimed  poor  Seth  at  last,  with  a  spasmodic  effort 
to  get  his  tongue  loose,  and  clap])ing  botli  hands  u\)<)u  his 
hat, — "  no ! — I  umst  go — let  me  out — I  ain't  well — let  me  go ! " 


48  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

A  greasy  cataract  was  now  pouring  down  the  poor  fellow's 
face  and  neck,  and  soaking  into  his  clothes,  and  trickling 
down  his  body  into  his  very  boots,  so  that  he  was  literally  in 
a  perfect  bath  of  oil. 

"  Well,  good  night,  Seth,"  said  the  humorous  Vermonter, 
"  if  you  will  go " ;  adding,  as  Seth  got  out  into  the  road, 
"  Neighbor,  I  reckon  the  fun  I've  had  out  of  you  is  worth  six- 
oence ;  so  I  sha'n't  charge  you  for  that  half-pound  of  butter." 


THE  CLOWN'S  STORY.— Vandyke  Browne. 

Yes — that's  my  business,  sir — a  down. 

The  saw-dust  ring  is  life  to  me. 
And  spinning  that  old  white  hat  by  the  crowu 

Is  a  sort  of  second  nature,  you  see. 

For  thirty  years  I've  been  in  the  ring — 

Thirty  yeai-s  and  I'll  be  bound  ; 
This  flight  of  time  is  a  curious  thing, 

And  here,  another  season's  'round  I 

No,  nothing  to  do.    Be  seated,  sir ; 

I'm  fond  of  an  hour's  quiet  chat ; 
And  what  with  show-life's  bustle  and  stir, 

It  isn't  a  thing  to  be  wondered  at. 

We've  been  on  the  road  four  months  to-day. 
The  road,  with  its  varied  pleasure  and  strife  ; 

And — beg  your  pardon,  sir,  what  did  you  say  ? — 
How  do  I  like  my  calling  in  llfcf 

Well,  'tisn't  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world — 

At  least  I  haven't  found  it  to  be; 
A  man  is  tossed  about,  and  hurled 

Here  and  there,  like  a  bottle  at  sea. 

But  a  fellow  must  live  somehow,  you  know, 
And  pick  up  his  bread  as  best  he  can  ; 

And  how  could  I  do  outside  the  show? 
I  think  it  would  prove  a  diflicult  i)lau. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  49 

Then,  too,  in  spite  of  the  hardship  and  strife, 

Of  which,  no  doubt,  it  has  its  share, 
There's  a  certain  charm  about  the  life 

That  steals  upon  me  unaware. 

Why,  sir,  as  soon  as  the  winter's  past, 

And  I  feel  the  warmer  breath  of  spring, — 

My  pulses,  even  now,  beat  fast, 
To  scent  again  the  air  of  the  ring  ! 

The  canvas,  sir,  is  the  only  place 

In  Avliich  I  feel  at  home,  you  see ; 
And  a  brown  stone  front,  with  Brussels  and  lace, 

Would  be  as  bad  as  the  Tombs  for  me ! 

Singular,  isn't  it?    Yet  I  suppose 

Whatever  the  life  a  man  has  led, 
He  learns  to  like  it — the  more  when  he  knows 

That  by  it  he  gets  his  butter  and  bread. 

Always  a  cloum.  f     Well,  no  sir,  no, 

I've  done  a  little  in  every  line — 
Was  principal  rider,  years  ago, 

But  fell  one, night  and  injured  my  spine. 

Performed  on  the  bar  for  a  season  or  more. 
And  tumbled  a  while— till  I  hurt  my  hip; 

That  left  me  always  a  little  sore — 

I  could  clear  twelve  horses  once,  like  a  whip ! 

And  then,  for  a  time,  I  did  the  trapeze 

With  Tom — the  sliow  bills  called  us  "brothers," 

And  'twasn't,  by  Jove,  much  out  of  the  way, 
Though  we  did  have  difl'erent  fathers  and  mothers ! 

I  wnsh  that  some  of  these  pious  chaps. 
Who'd  think  it  a  sin  to  shake  hands  with  me. 

Could  have  known  poor  Tom,  and  then,  perhaps, 
They'd  have,  in  the  future,  more  charity. 

It  happened  that  we  were  south  that  year, — 

The;  fever  was  raging  bad,  they  said  : 
And  y((t  I  had  no  thought  of  fear. 

Until  1  saw  Tom  lying  dead ! 

He  seemed  too  young,  too  strong  and  brave, 

To  b(>  thus  early  stricken  down  ; 
But  strength  don't  count  iigainst  tlie  grave; 

So  poor  Tom  went,  and  I  turned  clown. 

4  69 


5K  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

That's  more  than  twenty  years  ago ; 

And  since  that  sad  time — let  me  see — 
I've  stuck  with  patience  to  the  show, 

And  done  what  seemed  the  best  to  me. 

I  married,  after  poor  Tom  died, 

As  good  a  girl,  as  kind  and  true, 
As  ever  pledged  herself  a  bride, — 

I  count  that  more  than  looks,  don't  you? 

But  she  was  beautiful  as  well, 

With  such  rich,  glorious,  golden  hair, 

And  eyes  that  held  you  like  a  spell, — 
Such  eyes ! — like  that  blue  heaven  there ! 

Well,  we  were  wed,  and  for  a  time 

Our  lives  seemed  one  long  summer  day — 

"As  merry  as  a  marriage  chime," — 
I  think  that's  what  the  stories  say. 

But  ah,  how  soon  it  ended,  sir! 

The  road  and  canvas — life  to  me — 
Proved  all  too  rough  and  hard  for  her, 

She  drooped  beneath  the  weight,  you  see. 

I  watched  her,  heavy-hearted,  fail ; 

I  tried  to  think  she  would  not  die ; 
I  saw  her  rounded  cheek  grow  pale, — 

The  lustre  fade  from  out  her  eye ; 

And  then  I  knew  all  hope  was  past ; 

The  days  dragged  by,  with  snail-like  pace, — 
Such  days  of  anguish! — till,  at  last, 

Death  clasped  her  in  his  cold  embrace. 

Since  then  the  years  have  come  and  gone ; 

I've  scarcely  marked  them  as  they  tied ; 
For  from  the  day  on  which  she  died. 

It  seemed  as  though  time,  too,  were  dead. 

My  griefs,  sometimes,  have  crushed  me  down. 
But  the  world,  of  course,  knows  nothing  of  that; 

Who'd  think  of  sorrow  in  a  clown? 
My  business  is  to  spin  that  hat ! 

I  don't  complain.    The  life  I've  led 

Has  had  its  dark  and  sunny  page  ; 
Twas  Shakspeare,  wasn't  it?  who  said 

That  "  all  the  world  is  but  a  stage." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  5^ 

Well,  that,  I  think,  's  about  my  creed. 
And  'twouldn't  niiioh  have  changed  the  thing 

If  Shakspearo  had  made  the  passage  read 
That  "  all  the  world  is  but  a  ring." 

And  so  it  is,  sir !  you  and  I 

Are  only  playing  difierent  parts ; 
The  Manager  who  rules  on  higli 

I  think  will  judge  men  by  their  hearts. 

I  don't  believe  he'll  even  ask 

What  their  calling  was  down  here ; 
But  only  if  they  bore  their  task. 

And  kept  a  conscience  straight  and  clear. 

So,  when  the  season  here  is  through. 

And  I  go  to  meet  Him  face  to  face, 
If  He  finds  a  heart  that  has  tried  to  be  true, 

Perhaps  He'll  give  even  the  clown  a  place. 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE.— George  P.  Morris. 

This  book  is  all  that's  left  me  now, 

Tears  will  unbidden  start ; 
"With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow, 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  man)^  generations  past, 

Here  is  our  family  tree ; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasped; 

8he,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah !  well  do  I  remember  those 

Whose  names  these  records  bear, 
Who  round  the  hearthstone  used  to  close 

After  the  evening  jjrayer. 
And  si)eak  of  w^iat  these  pages  said, 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill ! 
Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still! 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

T(j  brothers,  sisters,  dear ; 
IIow  calm  was  mv  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  loved  (Jtod'a  word  to  hear! 


ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Her  angel  face — I  see  it  yet ! 

What  thronging  memories  come ! 
Again  that  Uttle  group  is  met 

Within  the  lialls  of  home ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I've  tried ; 
When  all  were  false  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counselor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy ; 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 
Charles  Dickens. 

'  I  have  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a  merry  company 
of  children  assembled  round  that  pretty  German  toy,  a  Christ- 
mas tree. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only  person  in 
the  house  awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn  back,  by  a  fascina- 
tion which  I  do  not  care  to  resist,  to  my  own  childhood. 
Straight  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  cramped  in  the  freedom 
of  its  growth  by  no  encircling  walls  or  soon-reached  ceiling, 
a  shadowy  tree  arises ;  and,  looking  up  into  the  dreamy 
brightness  of  its  top, — for  I  observe  in  this  tree  the  singular 
property  that  it  appears  to  grow  downward  towards  the 
earth, — I  look  into  my  youngest  Christmas  recollections. 

All  toys  at  first,  I  find.  But  upon  the  branches  of  the  tree, 
lower  down,  how  thick  the  books  begin  to  hang !  Thin  books, 
in  themselves,  at  first,  but  many  of  them,  with  deliciously 
smooth  covers  of  bright  red  or  green.  What  fot  black  let- 
ters to  begin  with ! 

"  A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a  frog."  Of  course  he  was. 
He  was  an  apple-pie  also,  and  there  he  is !  He  was  a  good 
many  things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and  so  were  most  of  his 
friends,  except  X,  who  had  so  little  versatility  that  I  never 
knew  him  to  get  beyond  Xerxes  or  Xantippe :    like  Y,  who 


NUMBKR    EIGHT.  53 

was  always  confined  to  a  yacht  or  a  yew-tree ;    and  Z,  con- 
demned forever  to  be  a  zebra  or  a  zany. 

But  now  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and  becomes  a  bean- 
stalk,— the  marvelous  bean-stalk  by  which  Jack  climbed  up 
to  the  giant's  house.  Jack,— how  noble,  with  his  sword  of 
sharpness  and  his  shoes  of  swiftness  ! 

Good  for  Christmas-time  is  the  ruddy  color  of  the  cloak  in 
which,  the  tree  making  a  forest  of  itself  for  her  to  trip 
through  with  her  basket.  Little  Red  Riding-Hood  comes  to 
me  one  Christmas  eve,  to  give  me  information  of  the  cruelty 
and  treachery  of  that  dissembling  wolf  who  ate  her  grand- 
mother, without  making  any  impression  on  his  appetite,  and 
then  ate  her,  after  making  that  ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth. 
She  was  my  first  love.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  have  married 
Little  Red  Riding-Hood  I  should  have  known  perfect  bliss. 
But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  look 
out  the  wolf  in  the  Noah's  Ark  there,  and  put  him  late  in 
the  procession  on  the  table,  as  a  monster  who  was  to  be  de- 
graded. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  Noah's  Ark !  It  was  not  found  seawor- 
thy when  put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the  animals  were 
crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and  needed  to  have  their  legs  well 
shaken  down  before  they  could  be  got  in  even  there  ;  and 
then  ten  to  one  but  they  began  to  tumble  out  at  the  door, 
which  was  but  imperfectly  fastened  with  a  wire  latch ;  but 
what  was  that  against  it? 

Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or  two  smaller  than  the  ele- 
phant ;  the  lady-bird,  the  butterfly,  —  all  triumphs  of  art ! 
consider  the  goose,  whose  feet  were  so  small  and  whose  bal- 
ance was  so  indifferent  that  he  usually  tumbled  forward  and 
knocked  down  all  the  animal  creation !  consider  Noah  and 
his  family,  like  idiotic  tobacco-stoppers;  and  how  the  leop- 
ard stuck  to  warm  little  fingers ;  and  how  the  tails  of  the 
larger  animals  used  gradually  to  resolve  themselves  into 
frayed  bit.s  of  string. 

Hush  !  Again  a  forest,  and  somebody  up  in  a  tree,  —  not 
Robin  Hood,  not  Valentine,  not  the  Yellow  Dwarf,— I  have 
passed  him  and  all  Mother  Buncli's  wonders  without  men- 
tion,—but  an  Eastern  King  with  a  glittering  scymitar  and 
turban.  It  is  the  setting-in  of  the  bright  Arabian  Nights. 
2a  A* 


34  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    BE£,EOT  1 G  WO. 

OVi  now  all  common  things  become  uncommon  and  en- 
chanted  to  me !  All  lamps  are  wonderful !  all  rings  are  tal- 
ismans !  Common  flower-pots  are  full  of  treasure,  with  a 
little  earth  scattered  on  the  top;  trees  are  for  Ali  Baba  to 
hide  in ;  beefsteaks  are  to  throw  down  into  the  Valley  of 
Diamonds,  that  the  precious  stones  may  stick  to  them,  and 
be  carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests,  whence  the  traders, 
with  loud  cries,  will  scare  them.  All  the  dates  imported 
come  from  the  same  tree  as  that  unlucky  one  with  whose 
shell  the  merchant  knocked  out  the  eye  of  the  genii's  invis' 
ible  son.  All  olives  are  of  the  same  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit 
concerning  which  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard 
the  boy  conduct  the  fictitious  trial  of  the  fraudulent  olive- 
merchant.  Yes,  on  every  object  that  I  recognize  among 
those  upper  branches  of  my  Christmas  tree  I  see  this  fairy 
light ! 

But  hark !  the  Waits  are  playing,  and  they  break  my  child- 
ish sleep !  What  images  do  I  associate  with  the  Christmas 
music  as  I  see  them  set  forth  on  the  Christmas  tree !  Known 
before  all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart  from  all  the  others, 
they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An  angel,  speaking  to  a 
group  of  shepherds  in  a  field ;  some  travelers,  with  eyes  up- 
lifted, following  a  star ;  a  baby  in  a  manger ;  a  child  in  a 
spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men :  a  solemn  figure 
with  a  mild  and  beautiful  face,  raising  a  dead  girl  by  the 
hand ;  again,  near  a  city  gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a  wid- 
ow, on  his  bier,  to  life ;  a  crowd  of  people  looking  through 
the  opened  roof  of  a  chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down 
a  sick  person  on  a  bed,  with  ropes ;  the  same,  in  a  temjiest, 
walking  on  the  waters ;  in  a  ship,  again,  on  a  sea-shore,  teach- 
ing a  great  multitude ;  again,  with  a  child  upon  his  knee, 
and  other  children  around ;  again,  restoring  sight  to  the 
blind,  speech  to  the  dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the 
sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowledge  to  the  ignorant ;  again, 
dying  upon  a  cross,  watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a  darkness 
coming  on,  the  earth  beginning  to  shake,  and  only  one  voice 
heard,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do !  " 

Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas  time,  still 
let  the  benignant  figure  of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged ! 
In  every  cheerful  image  and  suggestion  that  the  season 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  55 

brings,  may  the  bright  star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof 
be  the  star  of  all  the  Christian  world ! 

A  moment's  pause,  O  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower 
boughs  are  dark  to  me  yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more.  I 
know  there  are  blank  spaces  on  thy  branches,  where  eyes 
that  I  have  loved  have  shone  and  smiled,  from  which  they 
are  departed.  But,  far  above,  I  see  the  Raiser  of  the  dead 
girl  and  the  widow's  son, — and  God  is  good ! 

Whiltier's  "Child  Life  in  Prose." 


YE  EDITOR'S  PERPLEXITIES. 

An  editor  is  Mister  Squibbs, 

A  man  of  lordly  will ; 
A  mighty  man  likewise  to  wield 

Ye  scissoi-s  and  ye  quill. 

Ye  humble  honors  of  ye  press 

With  lofty  pride  he  wears  ; 
Although  no  millionaire,  he  hath 

Well  nigh  a  million  airs. 

lie  strives  with  dignity  to  feed 
Ye  little  8quibbs  with  bread. 

And  eke  upon  ye  wings  of  fame 
Ye  name  of  Squibbs  to  spread. 

He  takes  his  little  perquisites — 
Ye  which  each  Press  man  knows — 

With  ever  ready,  gracious  air, 
For  which  he  "  pufis  "  bestows. 

Now,  Mr.  Squibbs  he  had  a  pass 

Upon  3'e  railroad  train  ; 
Ye  which  was  stolen  ;  ye  loss  of  which 

It  vexed  him  sore  with  pain. 

Then,  with  a  frown  of  dignity, 
Squibbs  sought  ye  President : 

"Give  orders  to  your  hirelings  straight, 
Through  all  your  road's  extent, 

"To  seize  the  man,  wherever  found, 

Who  to  niy  nanic  aspires." 
Ye  orders  flew,  and  Mr.  Squibbs 

With  dignity  retires. 


06  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Not  many  days  thereafter,  Squibbs  I 

With  dignity  arose,  ■ 

And  clad  his  dignity  and  limbs 

All  in  his  Sunday  clothes ;  i 

For  Squibbs  was  bid  to  scenes  of  mirtb 

All  in  ye  cUstant  town, 
And  merrily  he  cut  his  pen 

To  note  ye  doings  down. 

And  while  he  viewed  his  toilette  o'er, 

All  by  a  luckless  chance, 
He  hit  upon  ye  stolen  pass, 

Safe  in  his  Sunday  pants. 

"With  lofty  air  Squibbs  gave  ye  pass 

Unto  ye  ticket  man  : 
"  Eureka !  "  muttered  he,  and  turned 

Ye  face  of  Squibbs  to  scan. 

Then,  with  a  flaming  lantern,  sore. 

He  smote  Squibbs  on  ye  head  ; 
Three  bloody  brakemen  then  he  called, 

Who  bore  him  out  as  dead. 

Upon  ye  lordly  Squibbs  then  sat 

Three  brakemen,  great  and  small, 
Ye  while  ye  wrathful  ticket  man 

His  clothes  did  overhaul. 

They  found  a  pass  on  every  road 

That  runs  ye  world  around  ; 
They  bound  liini  fast,  and  swore  they  had 

Ye  king  of  pass-thieves  found. 

His  freedom  was  at  last  restored ; 

His  dignity,  alas, 
Was  wrei'ked  !  and  even  to  this  day 

Squibbs  won't  ride  on  a  pass. 


CASSIUS  AGAINST  CvESAR.— Shakspeaek. 

I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  fevor. 
Well,  honor  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell  what  vou  and  other  men 


NUMBEK    EIGUT.  57 

Think  of  this  life  ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Ctesar ;  so  were  you  : 
AVe  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he : 
For  once,  upon  a  raw"  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubled  Tiber  chating  with  her  shores, 
Cajsar  said  to  me,  "  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood. 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ?  "    Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  1  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow :  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roared ;  and  we  did  buti'et  it 
"With  lusty  sinews,  throwing  it  aside, 
And  stemming  it,  with  hearts  of  controversy: 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 
Ciesar  cried,  "  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink !  " 
I,  as  .Eneas,  our  great  ancestor, 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 
Did  I  the  tired  Csesar,  and  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Cassius  is 
J^  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 
If  Ciesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake  :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  his  lustre  :  I  did  hear  him  groan  : 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
J\Iark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas,  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius," 
As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temjjer  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world. 
And  bear  the  palm  alone. 

Why,  man,  he  d(jth  bestride  the  narrow  world, 
TJke  a  Colossus  ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonorable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates: 
Tiie  fault,  dear  Brutas,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
r)Ut  in  ()urs(!lves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus,  and  Ca>sar :  wiiat  sIkiiiM  be  in  that  Ca>sar? 
AVliy  siuiuld  tlint  nanu?  tic  sounded  more  than  yours? 
Write  tiiem  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name; 
Soimd  them,  it  doth  become  the  moutli  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure  with  them, 

69* 


58  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Cfesar. 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once. 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Csesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?    Age,  thou  art  shamed  I 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  filmed  with  more  than  with  one  miui  f 
When  could  they  sav,  till  now,  that  talked  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walks  encompassed  but  one  man  I 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
Oh,  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fiithers  say, 
There  was  a  Brutus  once,  that  would  have  brooked 
Th'  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
•  As  easily  as  a  king. 


THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  WIFE.— Joe  Brennan. 

Come  to  me,  darling,  I'm  lonely  without  thee; 
Day-time  and  night-time  I'm  dreaming  about  thee; 
Ni4t-time  and  dav-time  in  dreams  I  behold  tliee, 
Unwelcome  the  waking  that  ceases  to  fold  tliee. 
Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten ; 
Come  in  thy  beauty,  to  bless  and  to  brighten ; 
Come  in  thv  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly ; 
Come  in  thy  loveliness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  shall  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin, 
Telling  of  Spring  and  its  joyous  renewing  ; 
And  thoughts  of  thy  love  and  its  manifest  treasure 
Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of  pleasure ; 
O  Spring  of  my  heart !  O  May  of  my  bosom ! 
Shine  out  on  mv  soul  till  it  burgeon  and  blossom. 
The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  withm  it,  _ 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can  win  it. 

Fi<-ure  which  moves  like  a  song  through  the  even, 
Features  lit  up  with  a  reflex  of  Heaven, 
Eves  like  the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our  mother  ^ 

Where  sunshine  and  shadow  are  chasing  each  other, 
Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  child-like  and  8"^^?]^^ !,    . 
And  opening  their  eves  from  the  heart  of  a  dimple, 
Oh '  thanks  to  the  Saviour  that  even  the  seeming 
Is  left  to  the  exile,  to  brighten  his  dreaming. 


NUMBER    EIGHT,  50 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was  gladdened  ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  to  hear  I  am  saddened? 
Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love. 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love  ; 
I  cannot  smile  but  your  cheeks  will  be  flowing ; 
You  cannot  wee])  but  my  tears  will  be  flowing; 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have  died,  love, 
And  I  could  not  live  without  you  at  my  side,  love. 

C^me  to  me,  darling,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow; 

If.se  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow ; 

Come  swift  and  strong  as  the  words  which  I  speak,  love, 

"With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on  your  cheek,  love ; 

Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  dreary ; 

Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  weary  ; 

Come  to  the  "arms  which  alone  shall  caress  thee ; 

Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to  press  thee. 


LET  EVERY  ONE  SWEEP  BEFORE  HIS  OWN 
DOOR. — A  Parapukase. 

1)0   we  heed  the  homely  adage,  handed  down  from  days  of 

yore  ? — 
'"  Ere  you  sweep  your  neighbor's  dwelling,  clear  the  rubbish 

from  your  door." 
Let  no  tilth,  no  rust  there  gather, — leave  no  traces  of  decaj', — ■ 
Pluck  up  every  weed  unsightly,  brush  the  fallen  leaves  away! 

If  we  ftiithfully  have  labored  thus  to  sweep  without,  with- 
in,— 
Plucked  up  envy,  evil-speaking,  malice,  each  besetting  sin, — 
"Weeds  that  by  the  sacred  portals  of  tlie  inner  temple  grow,^ 
Poisonous  weeds  the  heart  defiling,  bearing  bitterness  and 
woe; 

Then,  perchance,  we  may  have  leisure  o'er  our  neighbor  watch 

to  keep ; 
All  the  work  assigned  us  finished,  we  before  his  door  may 

sweej) ; 
Show  him  where  the  mosses  clinging,  tokens  ever  of  decay. 
Where  the  thistles,  thickly  springing,  daily  must  be  cleared 

away. 

But,  alas!    mir  work  neglecting,  oft  we  mount  the  judgment 

seat. 
With  his  failings,  his  omissions,  we  our  weary  brother  greet ; 


60  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

In  some  hidden  nook  forgotten,  searching  with  a  careful 

eye, 
We  the  springing  weeds  discover — some  slight  blemish  there 

descry. 

For  his  slothfulness,  his  blindness,  we  our  brother  harshly 
chide, 

Glorying  in  our  strength  and  wisdom,  we  condemn  him  in 
our  pride ; 

Ask  not  lohy  he  has  neglected  thus  before  his  door  to  sweep. 

Why,  grown  careless,  he  has  slumbered,  failed  his  garden- 
plot  to  keep. 

On  the  judgment  seat  still  sitting,  we  no  helping  hand  ex- 
tend 

To  assist  our  weaker  brother  his  short-comings  to  amend ; 

For  his  weariness,  his  faltering,  we  no  sweet  compassion 
show — 

From  our  store  no  cordial  bring  him,  no  encouragement  be- 
stow. 

But,  while  busied  with  our  neighbor,  urging  him  to  ceaseless 
care — 

Calling  to  the  thoughtless  idlers,  to  their  labor  to  repair, 

Lo !  unseen  the  dust  has  gathered,  weeds  are  growing  where 
of  yore 

Flow'rets  rare  and  sweet  were  blooming  when  we  swept  be- 
fore our  door. 

Ah !    how  easy  o'er  our  brother  faithful  ward  and  watch  to 

keep ; 
But,  alas !  before  our  dwelling  hard  indeed  to  daily  sweep ; 
Harder  than  to  share  the  conflict,  "by  the  stuff"  at  home  to 

stay,— 
Easier  far  to  sit  in  judgment  than  to  humbly  watch  and  pray. 


PATRICK  O'ROUKE   AND  THE  FROGS.    A  COLD 
WATER  STORY.— George  W.  Bungay. 

Saint  Patrick  did  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  his  day ;  he  not 
only  drove  the  snakes  out  of  Ireland,  but  he  also  drove  away 
the  frogs — at  least  I  judge  so  from  the  fact  that  Patrick  O' 
Rouke  was  unfamiliar  with  the  voices  of  these  noisy  hj'dro- 


NUMBKB    EIGHT.  61 

paths.  Pat  had  been  visiting  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and 
he  had  unibrtuuately  imbibed  more  whisky  tlian  ordinary 
mortals  can  absorb  with  safety  to  their  persons.  On  his  re- 
turn home  the  road  was  too  narrow,  and  he  performed  won- 
derful feats  in  his  endeavors  to  maintain  the  centre  of  grav- 
ity. Now  he  seemed  to  exert  his  best  efltbrts  to  walk  on  both 
sides  of  the  road  at  the  same  time ;  then  he  would  fall  and 
feel  upward  for  the  ground ;  then  he  would  slowly  pick  him- 
self up,  and  the  ground  would  rise  and  hit  him  square  in 
the  face.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  meadow-lands,  located 
about  half-way  betwixt  his  home  and  the  shanty  of  his 
friend,  he  was  somewhat  sobered  by-  the  ups  and  downs  he 
had  experienced  on  the  way. 

Hearing  strange  voices,  he  stopped  suddenly  to  ascertain 
if  possible  the  purport  of  their  language.     Judge  his  aston- 
ishment when  he  heard  his  own  name  distinctly  called, "  Pat- 
rick O'Rouke— Patrick  O'Rouke." 
-  "  Faith,  that's  my  name,  sure." 
"  Patrick  O'Rouke— Patrick— O'Rouke— Rouke—Rouke." 
"  What  do  ye  want  o'  the  likes  o'  me  ?  "  he  inquired. 
"  When  did  you  come  over — come  over — come  over?  " 
"  It  is  jest  tree  months  ago  to  the  minute,  and  a  bad  time 
■we  had,  sure,  for  we  wur  all  say-sick,  and  the  passage  lasted 
six  long  wakes." 

"  What  wall  you  do— do— do  ?  What  will  you  do— do— do  ?  " 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  at  all  at  all;  but  then  I  can  do  any 
thing :  I  can  dig ;  I  can  tind  mason ;  and  I  can  hould  office, 
if  I  can  git  it." 

"  You  are  drunk — you  are  drunk — drunk — drunk — drunk 
—drunk." 
"  By  my  sowl  that's  a  lie." 

"You  are  drunk — dead  drunk — drunk — drunk." 
"  Kepate   that  same  if  ye  dare  and  1  will  take  me  shillaly 
to  ye." 
"  You  are  drunk — dead  drunk — drunk — drunk." 
"  Ji.st  come  out  here  now  and  stip  on  the  tail  o'  my  coat, 
like  a  man,"  ex(;laime<l  Pat  in  liigh  dudgeon,  pulling  ofif  his 
coat  and  trailing  it  upon  the  ground. 
"  Strike  him — strike  him — strike — strike — strike." 


62  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

"  Come  on  wid  ye,  and  the  divil  take  the  hindmost ;  I  am 
a  broth  of  a  boy— cojne  on." 

"Knock  him  down— down — down." 

"  I  will  take  any  one  in  the  crowd,  and  if  Mike  Mulligan 
was  here  we  wud  take  ail  of  yees  at  onct." 

"  Kill  him— kill  him— kill  him." 

"  Och,  murther !  sure  ye  wud  not  be  after  murdering  me^ 
I  was  not  oncivil  to  ye.  Go  back  to  Pate  Dogan's  wid  me 
low,  and  I  will  trate  ivery  one  of  yees." 

"  We  don't  drink  rum — rum — rum." 

"And  are  ye  all  Father  Mathew  men?  " 

"  We  are  cold  watermen — watermen." 

"Take  me  advice  now,  and  put  a  little  whasky  in  the  wa- 
ther,  darlings :  it  will  kape  the  cowld  out  whin  yees  git  wet, 
and  so  it  will." 

"Moderation — moderation — moderation." 

'  Yis,  that's  the  talk.  I  wint  to  Pate  Dogan's,  down  there 
in  Brownville,  and  says  I, '  Will  ye  stand  trate  ? '  Says  he, 
'  Faith,  and  I  will.'  Says  I, '  Fill  up  the  glass ; '  and  so  he  did ; 
"  Fill  it  agin,'  said  I,  and  so  he  did;  'and  agin,'  said  I,  and 
so  he  did.  '  Give  me  the  bottle,'  said  L  'And  I  won't  do  that 
same,'  said  he.  '  Give  me  the  bottle,'  said  I,  and  he  kipt  on 
niver  heedin'  me  at  all  at  all,  so  I  struck  him  wid  me  fist  rite 
in  his  partatee  thrap,  and  he  kicked  me  out  o'  the  house, 
and  I  took  the  hint  that  he  didn't  want  me  there,  so  I  lift." 

"  Blackguard  and  bully — blackguard  and  bully." 

"  Ye  wouldn't  dare  say  that  to  my  face  in  broad  day,  sure ; 
but  ye  are  a  set  of  futpads  and  highwaymin,  hiding  behind 
the  rocks  and  the  traas.  Win  I  onct  git  to  Watertown  I  will 
sind  Father  Fairbanks  afther  ye,  and  he  will  chuck  ye  into 
the  pond  as  he  did  that  thafe  who  stole  the  public  money, 
and  he  will  hould  ye  there  until  ye  confess,  or  he  will  take 
yees  to  the  perleese." 

"  Come  on,  boys — chase  him — chase  him." 

"  Faith  and  I  won't  run,  but  I  will  jist  walk  rite  along,  for 
if  any  of  me  frinds  shud  find  me  here  in  sich  company,  at 
this  time  o'  night,  they  wud  think  I  was  thrying  for  to  stale 
Romethin'.  Tak  me  advice,  boys,  and  go  home,  for  it's  goin' 
for  to  rain,  and  ye  will  git  wet  to  the  skin  if  ye  kape  sich 
late  hours." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  63 

**  Catch  him — Ciitch  him — catch  him." 

'•  Sure  ye'd  bether  not,  for  I  haven't  got  a  cint  wid  me  or 
I'd  lave  it  in  yer  jackets.  "What's  the  use  of  staling  all  a  man 
has  whin  he  has  jist  nothing  at  all  at  all  ?  Bad  luck  to  ye 
for  bothering  me  so." 

About  this  time  the  frog  concert  was  in  full  tune,  and  the 
hoarse  chorus  so  alarmed  Pat  that  he  took  to  his  heels,  for 
he  was  now  sober  enough  to  run.  Reaching  his  home,  two 
miles  distant  from  the  scene  of  his  encounter  with  the  "  high- 
waymin  "  who  held  such  a  long  parley  with  him,  he  gave  a 
graphic  history  of  his  grievance.  Soon  it  was  noised  about 
the  neighborhood  that  Patrick  O'Rouke  had  been  waylaid 
and  abused  by  a  drunken  set  of  vagabonds,  whose  headquar- 
ters were  near  a  meadow  on  the  banks  of  the  Black  River; 
but  the  fear  of  the  citizens  subsided  when  they  discovered 
that  Pat  had  been  out  on  a  bender,  and  could  not  distinguish 
a  frog  from  a  friend  or  an  enemy. 


THE  SIGN  OF  DISTRESS. 


*Twas  a  wild,  dreary  night,  in  cheerless  December ; 

'Twas  a  night  only  lit  by  a  meteor's  gleam ; 
Twius  a  night, — of  that  night  I  distinctly  remember, — 

That  my  soul  journeyed  forth  on  the  wings  of  a  dream. 
That  dream  found  me  happy,  by  tried  friends  surrounded, 

Enjoying  with  rapture  the  comforts  of  wealth; 
My  cup  overflowing  with  Ijlessings  unbounded, 

My  heart  fully  charged  from  the  fountains  of  health. 

That  dream  left  me  wretched,  by  friendship  forsaken. 

Dejected,  despairing,  and  wrapped  in  dismay; 
By  poverty,  sickness,  and  ruin  o'ertaken, 

To  every  temptation  and  passion  a  i)rey; 
Devoid  of  an  end  or  an  aim,  I  then  wandered 

O'er  Jiighway  and  by-way  and  lone  wilderness; 
On  the  past  and  the  present  and  future  I  pondered. 

But  ])ride  bade  uie  tender  no  sign  of  distress. 


S4  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

Jxi  frenzy  the  wine  cup  I  instantly  quaffed  at, 

And  habit  and  time  made  me  quafl"  to  excess ; 
But  heated  by  wine,  hlce  a  madman,  I  hiu<i;hed  at 

The  tliouglit  of  e'er  giving  tlie  sign  of  distress ; 
But  wine  sank  me  lower  by  lying  pretenses. 

It  tattered  my  raiment  and  furrowed  my  face, 
It  palsied  my  sinews  and  pilfered  my  senses. 

And  forced  me  to  protfer  a  sign  of  distress. 

I  reeled  to  a  chapel,  where  churchmen  were  kneeUng, 

And  asking  their  Savior  poor  sinners  to  bless; 
My  claim  I  ])resented — the  door  of  tliat  chapel 

Was  slammed  in  my  face  at  the  sign  of  distress ; 
I  strolled  to  the  priest,  to  the  servant  of  Heaven, 

And  sued  for  relief  with  wild  eagerness;  , 

He  i:)rayed  that  my  sins  might  at  last  be  forgiven, 

And  thought  he  had  a)iswired  my  sign  of  distress. 

I  staggered  at  last  to  the  home  of  my  mother, 

Believing  my  prayers  there  would  meet  with  success. 
But  lather  and  mother  and  sister  and  brother 

Disowned  me,  and  taunted  my  sign  of  distress. 
I  lay  down  to  die,  a  stranger  drew  nigh  me, 

A  spotless  white  lambskin  adorning  his  dress; 
My  eye  caught  the  emblem,  and  ere  he  passed  by  me, 

I  gave,  as  before,  the  sign  of  distress. 

"With  godlike  emotion  that  messenger  hastens 

To  grasp  me,  and  whisper,  "  My  brother,  I  bless 
The  hour  of  my  life  when  I  learned  of  the  Masons 

To  give  and  to  answer  your  sign  of  distress." 
Let  a  sign  of  distress  by  a  craftsman  be  given, 

And  tliough  priceless  to  me  is  eternity's  bliss, 
May  my  name  never  enter  the  records  of  Heaven 

Should  I  fail  to  acknowledge  that — sign  of  distress. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  IN  CHRIST. 

'      Mrs.  E.  Prentiss. 

I  walk  along  the  crowded  streets,  and  mark 

The  eager,  anxious  faces ; 
Wondering  what  this  man  seeks,  what  that  heart  crave% 

In  earthly  places. 


NUMBER    EIQUT.  65 

I>o  I  want  any  thing  that  they  are  wanting? 

Ls  each  of  them  nij'  brother? 
Could  we  hold  lellow^ihip,  speak  heart  to  heart, 

Each  to  the  other? 

Nay,  but  I  know  not !  only  this  I  know, 

That  sometimes  merely  crossing 
Another's  path,  where  life's  tumultuous  waves 

Are  ever  tossing. 

He,  as  he  passes,  whispers  in  mine  ear 

One  magic  sentence  only, 
And  in  the  awful  loneliness  of  crowds 

I  am  not  lonely. 

Ah,  what  a  life  is  theirs  who  live  in  Christ ; 

How  vast  the  mystery ! 
Reaching  in  height  to  heaven,  and  in  its  depth 
'  The  unfathomed  sea. 


FREEDOM  AND  PATRIOTISM.— Orville  Dewet. 

God  has  stami:)ed  aj)on  our  very  humanity  this  impress  of 
f.'eedom.  liLis  the  unchartered  prerogative  of  human  na-v 
ture. '  A  soul  ceases  to  be  a  soul,  in  proportion  as  it  ceases  to 
be'free.  Strip  it  of  this,  and  you  strip  it  of  one  of  its  essen- 
tial and  characteristic  attributes.  It  is  this  that  draws  the 
footsteps  of  the  wild  Indian  to  his  wide  and  boundless  des- 
ert-paths, and  makes  him  prefer  them  to  the  gay  saloons  and 
soft  carpets  of  sumptuous  palaces.  It  is  this  that  makes  it 
so  difficult  to  bring  him  within  the  pale  of  artificial  civilizti- 
tion.  Our  roving  tribes  are  p(!rishing— a  sad  and  solemn 
sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  thcur  wild  freedom^  They  comos 
among  us,  and  look  with  childish  wonder  upon  the  perfec- 
tion of  our  arts,  and  the  splcnidor  of  our  habitations;  they 
submit  with  ennui  and  weariness,  for  a  few  days,  to  our  bur- 
densome forms  and  restraints;  and  then  turn  llicir  faces  to 
their  ffjn-sf  hom(!s,  and  resolve  to  pusli  those  homes  onward 
till  thev  sink  in  the  Pacific  waves,  rather  than  not  ho  free. 


GG  ONK    HUNDRED   CnOICE   SELECTIONS 

It  is  thus  that  every  people  is  attached  to  its  country,  just 
in  proportion  as  it  is  free.  No- matter  if  tliat  country  be  in 
the  rocky  fastnesses  of  Switzerland,  amidst  the  snows  of  Tar- 
tary,  or  on  the  most  barren  and  lonely  island-shore ;  ncr 
matter  if  that  country  be  so  poor  as  to  force  away  its  chil- 
dren to  other  and  richer  lands,  for  employment  and  susten- 
ance ;  yet  when  the  songs  of  those  free  homes  chance  to  fall 
upon  the  exile's  ear,  no  soft  and  ravishing  airs  that  wait  up- 
on the  timid  feastings  of  Asiatic  opulence  ever  thrilled  tho 
heart  with  such  mingled  rapture  and  agony  as  those  simple 
tones.  Sad  mementos  might  they  be  of  poverty  and  want 
and  toil ;  yet  it  was  enough  that  they  were  mementos  of 
happy  freedom.  And  more  than  once  has  it  been  necessary 
to  forbid  by  military  orders,  in  the  armies  of  the  Swiss  mer- 
cenaries, the  singing  of  their  native  songs. 

And  such  an  attachment,  do  I  believe,  is  found  in  o\ir  own 
people,  to  their  native  country.  It  is  the  country  of  the 
free  ;  and  that  single  consideration  compensates  for  the  want 
of  many  advantages  which  other  countries  possess  over  us. 
And  glad  am  I  that  it  opens  wide  its  hospitable  gates  to  many 
a  noble  but  persecuted  citizen,  from  the  dungeons  of  Austria 
and  Italy,  and  the  imprisoning  castles  and  citadels  of  Poland. 
Here  may  they  find  rest,  as  they  surely  find  sympathy, 
though  it  is  saddened  with  many  bitter  remembrances ! 

Yes,  let  me  be  free ;  let  me  go  and  come  at  my  own  will ; 
let  me  do  business  and  make  journeys,  without  a  vexatious 
police  or  insolent  soldiery  to  watch  my  steps ;  let  me  think 
and  do  and  speak  what  I  please,  subject  to  no  limit  but  that 
which  is  set  by  the  cor-'mon  weal ;  subject  to  no  law  but 
that  which  conscience  binds  upon  me  ;  and  I  will  bless  my 
country,  and  love  its  most  rugged  rocks  and  its  most  barren 
soil. 

I  have  seen  my  countrymen,  and  have  been  with  them  a 
fellow-wanderer,  in  other  lands ;  and  little  did  I  see  or  feel 
to  warrant  the  apprehension,  sometimes  expressed,  that  for- 
eign travel  would  weaken  our  patriotic  attachments.  One 
sigh  for  home — home,  arose  from  all  hearts.  And  why,  from 
palaces  and  courts — why,  from  galleries  of  the  arts,  where 
the  marble  softens  into  life,  and  painting  sheds  an  almost 
living  presence  of  beauty  around  it — why,  from  the  mourn 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  67 

tain's  awful  brow,  and  the  love'.y  valleys  and  lakes  touched 
with  the  sunset  hues  of  okl  romance— why,  from  those  ven- 
erable and  touching  ruins  to  which  our  very  heart  grows— 
why,  from  all  these  scenes,were  they  looking  beyond  the  swel- 
lings of  the  Atlantic  wave,  to  a  dearer  and  holier  spot  of  earth 
— their  own,  own  country?  Doubtless,  it  was,  in  part,  because 
it  is  their  country.  But  it  was  also,  as  every  one's  experience 
will  testify,  because  they  knew  that  there  was  no  oppression, 
no  pitiful  exaction  of  petty  tyranny ;  because  that  there,  they 
knew,  was  no  accredited  and  irresistible  religious  domina- 
tion ;  because  that  there,  they  knew,  they  should  not  meet  the 
odious  soldier  at  every  corner,  nor  swarms  of  imploring  beg- 
gars, the  victims  of  misrule  ;  that  there,  no  curse  causeless 
did  fell,  and  no  blight,  worse  than  plague  and  pestilence,  did 
descend  amidst  the  pure  dews  of  heaven ;  because,  in  fine, 
that  there,  they  knew,  was  liberty — upon  all  the  green  hills, 
and  amidst  all  the  peaceful  valleys — liberty,  the  wall  of  fire 
around  the  humblest  home, — the  crown  of  glory,  studded 
with  her  ever-blazing  stars,upon  the  proudest  mansion  ! 

My  friends,  upon  our  own  homes  that  blessing  rests,  that 
guardian  care  and  glorious  crown ;  and  when  we  return  to 
those  homes,  and  so  long  as  we  dwell  in  them — so  long  as 
no  oppressor's  foot  invades  their  thresholds,  let  us  bless 
them,  and  hallow  them  as  the  homes  of  freedom !  Let  us 
make  them  too  the  homes  of  a  nobler  freedom— of  free- 
dom from  vice,  from  evil,  from  passion — from  every  corrupt- 
ing bondage  of  the  soul. 


THE  QUAKER  AND  THE  ROBBER.— Samuel  Lover. 

A  traveler  wended  the  wilils  among. 

With  a  purse  of  gold  and  a  silver  tongue ; 

His  hilt  it  was  broad,  and  all  dnil)  were  his  clothes, 

For  he  hated  high  colors — cxccj)t  on  his  nose; 

And  he  met  with  a  lady,  the  story  goes. 

The  damsel  she  cast  him  a  merry  l)liiik, 
And  the  traveler  was  nothing  loth,  I  Ihink  ! 


68  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Her  merry  black  eye  beamed  her  bonnet  beneath, 
And  the  Quaker  he  grinned,  for  he'd  very  good  teeth  ; 
And  he  asked,  "Art  thou  going  to  ride  on  the  heath  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you'll  protect  me,  kind  sir,"  said  the  maid, 
"As  to  ride  this  heath  over  I  am  sadly  afraid ; 
For  robbers,  they  say,  here  in  numbers  abound, 
And  I  wouldn't  for  anything  I  sh(juld  be  found  : 
For  between  you  and  me  I  have  five  hundred  pound." 

*'  If  that  is  thine  own,  dear,"  the  Quaker  said, 
"  I  ne'er  saw  a  maiden  I  sooner  would  wed  ; 
And  I  have  another  five  hundred  just  now. 
In  the  padding  that's  under  my  saddle-bow : 
And  I'll  settle  it  all  upon  thee,  I  vow !  " 

The  maiden  she  smiled,  and  the  rein  she  drew, 
"  Your  ofier  I'll  take,  though  I'll  not  take  you ! " 
A  pistol  she  held  to  the  Quaker's  head— 
"  Now  give  me  your  gold,  or  I'll  give  you  my  lead : 
'Tis  under  the  saddle,  I  think  you  said." 

And  the  damsel  ripped  up  the  saddle-bow. 
And  the  Quaker  was  ne'er  a  quakcr  till  now ; 
And  he  saw  by  the  fair  one  he  wished  for  a  bride, 
His  purse  drawn  away  with  a  swaggering  stride, 
And  the  eye  that  looked  tender  now  only  defied. 

"  "Kie  spirit  doth  move  me,  friend  Broadbrim,"  quoth  she, 
"  To  take  all  this  filthy  temptation  from  thee  ; 
For  mammon  deceives,  and  beauty  is  fieeting. 
Accept  from  thy  maiden  a  right  loving  greeting. 
For  much  doth  she  profit  by  this  happy  meeting. 

"And  hark,  jolly  Quaker,  so  rosy  and  sly. 

Have  righteousness  more  than  a  lass  in  your  eye ; 

Don't  go  again  peeping  girls'  bonnets  beneath, 

Remember  the  one  you  met  on  the  heath : 

Her  name's  Jimmy  Barlow — I  tell  to  your  teeth." 

"  Friend  James,"  quoth  the  Quaker,  "  pray  listen  to  me. 
For  thou  canst  confer  a  great  favor,  d'ye  see  ? 
The  gold  thou  hast  taken  is  not  mine,  my  friend, 
But  my  master's — and  truly  on  thee  I  depend 
To  make  it  appear  I  my  trust  did  defend. 

"  So  fire  a  few  shots  through  my  coat  here  and  there, 
To  make  it  appear  'twas  a  desperate  affair." 
So  Jim  he  popped  first  through  the  skirts  of  his  coat, 
And  then  through  his  collar,  quite  close  to  his  throat ; 
Now  once  through  my  broadbrim,"  quoth  Ephraim, ''  I  vole." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  60 

"  I  have  but  a  brace,"  said  bold  Jim,  "  and  they're  spent, 
And  I  won't  load  again  for  a  make-believe  rent." 
"Then,"  said  Ephraini,  producing  his  pistols,  "just  give 
M}'  live  hundred  i)0unds  back,  or,  as  sure  as  you  live, 
I'll  make  of  your  body  a  riddle  or  sieve." 

Jim  Barlow  was  diddled — and  though  he  was  game, 

He  saw  Ephraim's  pistol,  so  deadly  in  aim. 

That  he  gave  up  the  gold,  and  he  took  to  his  scrapers; 

And  when  the  whole  story  got  into  the  papers. 

They  said  that  the  thieves  were  no  match  for  the  Quakers. 


RABBOXL— M.  J.  Peeston. 


Of  all  the  nights  of  most  mysterious  dread 

Tliis  elded  earth  hath  known,  none  matched  in  gloom. 

That  crucifixion  night  when  Christ  lay  dead, — 
Sealed  up  in  Joseph's  tomb ! 

No  faith  that  rose  sublime  above  the  pain. 
Remembered  in  its  anguish  what  He  said: 

"After  tliree  days  and  I  shall  rise  again," — 
Their  hopeless  hearts  were  dead. 

Throughout  the  ghastly  "  Preparation  Day," 

How  had  (hat  stricken  mother  dragged  lier  breath! 

Like  all  of  Adam  l)orn,  her  "  God-given  "  lay 
Beneath  the  doom  of  death. 

The  prophecy  she  nursed  through  pondering  years 
Of  appn-hension,  now  had  founcl  its  whole 

FuUiUment,  infinite  beyond  her  fears, — 
The  sword  Jiud  pierced  her  soul! 

The  vehement  tears  of  Peter  well  might  flow. 
Mixed  with  the  wormwood  of  rei)cnfa7it  sliame; 

Now  would  he  yield  his  life  thrice  told,  if  so 
He  might  confess  tlic  name 

H(!  luid  deniiui  with  curses.     Fruitless  were 
The  keen  remorses  now,  the  gnawing  smart; 

A  heavier  stone  than  sealed  tlie  sepulchre 
Was  rolled  above  liis  heart. 

I'liJi 


70  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Surprise  and  grief  and  baffled  hopes  sufficed 
To  rush  as  seas  their  souls  and  God  between  ; 

Yet  none  of  all  had  mourned  the  buried  Christ, 
As  Mary  Magdalene. 

When  all  condemned,  He  bade  her  live  again, — 
When  all  were  hard,  HLs  pity  moved  above 

Her  penitent  spirit,  healed  it,  cleansed  its  stain, 
And  made  it  pure  with  love. 

And  she  had  broken  all  her  costliest  store 
O'er  him  whose  tenderness,  so  new,  so  rare. 

Stood,  like  a  strong,  white  angel,  evermore 
'Twixt  her  and  mad  despair. 

And  He  was  dead  '.—Her  peace  had  died  with  Him  I 

The  demons  who  had  fled  at  His  control. 
With  sevenfold  chains  within  their  dungeons  dim, 

YV^ould  henceforth  bind  her  soul. 

How  slowly  crept  the  Sabbath's  endless  week  ! 

What  aching  vigils  watched  the  lingering  day, 
"When  she  might  stagger  through  the  dark  and  seek 

The  garden  where  He  lay ! 

And  when  she  thrid  her  way  to  meet  the  dawn. 
And  found  the  gates  unbarred,— a  grieving  moan 

Broke  from  her  lips—"  Who  "  (for  her  strength  was  gone,) 
"Will  roll  away  the  stone?" 

She  held  no  other  thought,  no  hope  but  this : 
To  look— to  touch  the'  sacred  flesh  once  more,— 

Handle  the  spices  with  adoring  kiss 
And  help  to  wind  him  o'er 

With  the  fair  linen  Joseph  had  prepared, — 
Lift  reverently  the  wounded  hands  and  feet. 

And  gaze,  one  blinded,  on  the  featm-es  bared. 
And  drink  the  last,  most  sweet 

Divine  illusion  of  his  presence  there. 

And  then,  the  embalming  done,  with  one  low  cry 
Of  utmost,  unappeasable  despair, 

Seek  out  her  home  and  die. 

Lo,  the  black  square  that  showed  the  opened  tomb ! 

She  sprang — she  entered  unafraid — and  swept 
Her  arms  outstretching,  groping  through  the  gloom. 

To  touch  Him  where  he  slept. 


NUMBEREIGIIT.  H 

Her  trembling  fingers  grasped  the  raiment  cold, 

Pungent  with  aloes,  lying  where  lie  lay : 
She  smoothed  her  hands  above  it,  fold  by  fold, — 

Her  Lord  was  stolen  away ! 

And  others  eame  anon,  who  wept  him  sore, — 
Simon  and  John,  the  women  pale  and  spent 

With  fearful  watehings  ;  wondering  more  and  more 
They  questioned,  gazed, — and  went. 

Nor  thus  did  :Mary.    Though  the  lingering  gloom 

Parted  into  brightness,  and  city's  stir 
Came  floating  upward  to  the  golden  tomb, 

There  was  no  dawn  for  her  ;— 

No  room  for  faintest  hopes,  nor  utmost  fears  : 
For  when  she  sobbing  stoojied,  and  saw  the  twain 

White-elothen  angels,  through  her  tailing  tears, 
Sit  where  her  Lord  had  lain. 

And  ask,  "  Why  weepest  thou?  "-  there  brake  no  cry, 
But  she  with  deadened  calm  her  answer  made : 

"  Because  they  have  taken  away  my  Lord,  and  I 
Know  not  where  He  is  laid." 

Was  it  a  step  upon  the  de^^y  grass? 

Was  it  a  garment  rustled  by  the  wind? 
Did  some  hushedbreathing  o'er  her  senses  pass, 

And  draw  her  looks  behind? 

She  turned  and  saw— the  very  Lord  she  sought— 

Jesus  the  newly-risen !— but  no  surprise 
Held  her  astound  and  rooted  to  the  spot ; 

Her  filmed  and  bolden  eyes 

Had  only  vision  for  the  swathed  form  ; 

Nor  from  her  mantle  lifted  she  her  face, 
Nor  marveled  that  the  gardener's  voice  should  waim 

With  pity  at  her  case ; — 

Till  sprang  the  sudden  thought,  "  If  he  should  know :  "— 
And  then  she  turned  full  (juickly :  "Sir,  I  pray 

Tell  me  where  thou  hast  borne  Him,  that  I  may  go 
And  take  Him  thence  away." 

Tbc  resurrection-morning's  broadening  blaze 
Shot  u])  Ix'hind,  and  clear  before  her  sight, 

Centred  on  Jesus  its  trnnsliguring  rays. 
And  hallowed  him  with  light. 


72  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"Mary  !  " — The  measureless  pathos  was  the  same 
As  when  her  Lord  had  said,  "  Thou  art  for<i;iven  ; " 

Had  He,  for  comfort,  named  her  by  her  name 
Out  from  the  height  of  heaven  ? 

She  looked  aloft — she  listened,  turned  and  gazed ; 

A  revelation  flashed  across  her  brow ; 
One  moment, — and  she  prostrate  fell,  amazed, — 

"Jiabboni  .'—It  is  Thou ! " 


A  NAME.— W.  F.  Fox. 


Oh !  give  me  a  name  that  shall  live  forever, 

Like  the  leaf  of  the  immortelle  ; 
And  weave  me  a  chain  where  no  link  may  sever, 

Nor  lost,  nor  yet  broken  its  spell : 
For  nearer  the  heart  and  e'en  dearer  by  far' 

Than  the  love  for  aught  else  beside. 
Is  a  name  that  shall  shine  like  evening's  bright  star 


'& ' 


When  action  and  thought  shall  have  died 


&* 


The  laurel  and  cypress  may  wither  and  die, 

The  myrtle  and  olive  grow  pale. 
The  beauty  may  fade,  that  now  beams  in  the  eye, 

And  rust  coat  tlie  armor  and  mail.  : 

The  leaves  and  the  flowers  may  mingle  with  earth, 

And  sigh  for  the  days  that  have  flown  ; 
And  liearts  now  so  free  and  so  joyous  Avith  mirth, 

May  mourn  for  life's  pleasures  Avhen  gone ; 

The  voice  of  the  maiden  may  sober  in  tone. 

And  music  may  lose  its  soft  thrill, 
The  proud  soul  may  learn  to  yet  struggle  alone. 

And  drink  of  the  cuj)  she  must  fill"; 
The  objects  we  cherish  may  yield  to  decay,  ; 

And  all  that  is  lovely  may  fade, 
And  life  may  grow  dim  like  the  twilight  of  day, 

And  rest  'neath  the  rock  and  the  shade ;  ^ 

But  yet  if  there  live  'mid  the  shadows  that  fall,  j 

A  name — that  has  lived  in  the  past, —  i 

Whose  light  shall  reflect  upon  Time's  faded  wall 

The  lustre  its  virtues  have  cast: 
It  will  gladden  the  soul  when  life  shall  go  down 

To  find,  traced  in  letters  of  gold, 
A  name,  that  is  richer  by  far  tlian  a  crown 

In  thoughts  and  i)i  deeds  that  were  bold. 


J 


NUMBER     EIGHT.  73 


A  HEBREW  TALE— Mrs.  Sigourxey, 

Twilight  was  deepening  with  a  tinge  of  eve, 
As  toward  his  home  in  Israel's  sheltered  vales 
A  stately  Rabbi  drew.    His  camels  spied 
Afar  the  palm-trees'  lofty  heads,  that  decked 
The  dear,  domestic"  fountain, — and  in  speed 
Pressed  with  broad  foot  the  smooth  and  dewy  glade. 
The  holv  man  his  peaceful  threshold  passed 
With  ha"sting  step.    The  evening  meal  was  spread, 
And  she  who  from  life's  morn  his  heart  had  shared 
Breathed  her  fond  welcome.    Bowing  o'er  the  board, 
The  blessing  of  his  fathers'  God  he  sought. 
Ruler  of  earth  and  sea.     Then,  raising  high 
The  sparkling  wine-cup,  "  Call  my  sons,"  he  bade, 
"And  let  me  bless  them  ere  their  hour  of  rest." 

The  observant  mother  spake  with  gentle  voice 
Somewhat  of  soft  excuse, — that  they  were  wont 
To  linger  long  amid  the  Prophet's  school. 
Learning  the  holy  law  their  father  loved. 

His  sweet  repast  with  sweet  discourse  was  blent, 
Of  journeying  and  return. — "  Would  thou  hadst  seen 
With  me,  the  golden  morning  break  to  light 
Yon  mountain  summits,  whose  blue,  waving  line 
Scarce  meets  thine  eye,  where  cliirp  of  joyous  birds, 
And  breath  of  fragrant  shrubs,  and  spicy  gales, 
And  sigh  of  waving  boughs,  stirred  in  the  soul 
AVarm  orisons.     Yet  most  I  wished  thee  near 
Amid  the  temple's  pomp,  when  the  high  priest, 
Clad  in  his  robe  pontitical,  invoked 
The  God  of  Abraham,  while  from  lute  and  harp, 
Cymbal  and  trump  and  jisaltery  and  glad  breath 
Of  tuneful  Levite,  and  the  mighty  shout 
Of  all  our  iieoj)le,  like  the  swelling  sea. 
Loud  hallelujahs  l)urst.     When  next  I  seek 
Blest  Zion's  glorious  hill,  our  beauteous  boys 
]\Iust  bear  me  company.    Their  early  prayers 
AVill  rise  as  incense.    Thy  reluctant  love 
No  longer  nnist  withhold"  them  :  the  new  toil 
Will  give  them  sweeter  sleep,  and  touch  their  cheek 
With  l)righter  crimson.     'Mid  their  raven  curls 
:My  han<i  I'll  lay,  and  dedicate  them  there, 
Even  in  those;  hallowed  c'ourts,  \o  Israel's  God  : 
Two  spotless  lam))s,  well  pleasing  in  his  sight. 
But  yet,  methinks,  thou'rt  paler  grown,  my  love  ; 
And  the  pure;  sapjihirc  of  thine  eye  looks  dim, 
As  though  'twere  wasiied  with  tears." 

CO 


74  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Faintly  she  smiled,— 
"One  douht,  my  lord,  I  fain  would  have  thee  solve: 
Gems  of  rich  lustre  and  of  countless  cost 
Were  to  my  keeping  trusted.     Now,  alas! 
They  are  demanded.     Must  they  be  restored? 
Or  may  I  not  a  little  longer  gaze 
Upon  their  dazzling  hues  ?  "     His  eye  grew  stern 
And  on  his  lip  there  lurked  a  sudden  curl 
Of  indignation  :    "  Doth  my  itife  propose 
Siich  doubt  f  as  if  a  master  might  not  claim 
His  own  again ! "    "  Nay,  Rabbi,  come  behold 
These  priceless  jewels  ere  I  yield  them  back." 
So  to  their  spousal  chamber  with  soft  hand 
Her  lord  she  led.    There,  on  a  snow-white  couch 
Lay  his  two  sons,  pale,  pale  and  motionless, 
Like  fair  twin-lilies,  which  some  grazing  kid 
In  wantonness  had  cropped.    "  My  sons !  my  sons  I 
Light  of  my  eyes ! "  the  astonished  father  cried ; 
"  My  teachers  in  the  law, — whose  guileless  hearts 
And  prompt  obedience  warned  me  oft  to  be 
More  perfect  with  my  God ! " 

To  earth  he  fell, 
Like  Lebanon's  rent  cedar:  while  his  breast 
Heaved  with  such  groans  as  when  the  laboring  soul 
Breaks  from  its  clay  companion's  close  embrace. 
The  mourning  mother  turned  away  and  wept 
Till  the  first  storm  of  passionate  grief  was  still; 
Then,  pressing  to  his  ear  her  faded  lip. 
She  sighed  in  tone  of  tremulous  tenderness, 
"lliou  didst  instruct  me.  Rabbi,  how  to  yield 
The  summoned  jewels :    see,  the  Lord  did  give, 
The  Lord  hath  taken  away." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  sire, 
"And  blessed  be  his  name.    Even  for  tliij  sake. 
Thrice  blessed  be  Jehovah."     Long  he  pressed 
On  those  cold,  beautiful  brows  his  quivering  lip, 
"While  from  his  eye  the  burning  anguish  rolled ; 
Then,  kneeling  low,  those  chastened  spirits  poured 
Their  mighty  homage. 


SIMON  SHORT'S  SON  SAMUEL. 

Shrewd  Simon  Short  sewed  shoes.  Seventeen  summers' 
speeding  storms,  —  succeeding  sunshine — successively  saw 
Simon's  small   shabby  shop  standing  staunch,  saw  Simon's 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  "  75 

self'Same  sign  still  swinging,  silently  specifying:  "Simon 
Short,  Smithfield's  sole  surviving  shoemaker.  Shoes  sewed, 
soled  superfinely."  Simon's  S2jry  sedulous  spouse,  Sally  Short, 
sewed  shirts,  stitched  sheets,  stuiied  sofas,  Simon's  six  stout 
sturdy  sons, — Seth,  Samuel,  Stephen,  Saul,  Shadrach,  Silas — ■ 
sold  sundries.  Sober  Seth  sold  sugar,  starch,  spices ;  Simple 
Sam  sold  saddles,  stirrups,  screws ;  Sagacious  Stephen  sold 
silks,  satins,  shawls ;  Skeptical  Saul  sold  silver  salvers,  silver 
spoons;  Selfish  Shadrach  sold  shoe  strings,  soaps,  saws, 
skates ;  Slack  Silas  sold  Sally  Short's  stuiied  sofas. 

Some  seven  summers  since,  Simon's  second  son,  Samuel, 
saw  Sophia  Sophrouia  Spriggs  somewhere.  Sweet,  sensible, 
smart  Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs.  Sam  soon  showed  strange 
symptoms.  Sam  seldom  stayed  storing,  selling  saddles.  Sam 
sighed  sorrowfully,  sought  Sophia  Sophronia's  society,  sang 
several  serenades  slily.  Simon  stormed,  scoldod  severely, 
said  Sam  seemed  so  silly,  singing  such  shameful,  senseless 
songs. 

"  Strange  Sam  should  slight  such  s])lendid  summer  sales," 
said  Simon.  "  Strutting  spendthrift !  shatter-brained  sim- 
pleton !" 

"  Softly,  softly,  sire,"  said  Sally ;  "  Sam's  smitten — Sam's 
spied  sweetheart." 

"Sentimental  schoolboy!"  snarled  Simon;  "Smitten! 
Stop  such  stuff! " 

Simon  sent  Sally's  snuff-box  spinning,  seizing  Sally's  scis- 
sors, smashed  Sally's  spectacles,  scattering  several  spools. 
"Sneaking  scoundrel!  Sam's  shocking  silliness  shall  sur- 
cease ! "  Scowling  Simon  stopped  speaking,  starting  swiftly 
shopward.  Sally  sighed  sadly.  Summoning  .Sam,  she  spoke 
sweet  symi)athy. 

"  Sam,"  said  she,  "  sire  seems  singularly  snappy :  so,  sonny, 
stop  stnjlling  sidewalks,  stop  smoking  segars,  spending  spe- 
cie superfluously  ;  stop  sprucing  so  ;  stop  singing  serenades 
— stop  short:  sell  saddles,  sonny;  sell  saddles  sensil)ly;  see 
Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs  soon  ;  she's  sprightly,  she's  staple, 
so  solicit,  sure  ;  so  secure  S()j)hia  speedily,  Sam." 

"So  soon  ;  so  soon?"  said  Sam,  standi iig  stock  still. 

"  So  soon !  surely,"  said  Sally,  smiling,  "  specially  since  siro 
shows  such  spirit," 


TO  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS 

So  Sam,  somewhat  scared,  sauntered  slowly,  shaking  stu- 
pendously.   Sam  soliloquizes : 

"  Sophia  Sophronia  Spriggs  Short  —  Sophia  Sophronia 
Short,  Samuel  Short's  spouse — sounds  splendid !  Suppose 
she  should  say — she  sha'n't ! " 

Soon  Sam  spied  Sophia  starching  shirts,  singing  softly. 
Seeing  Sam  she  stopped  starching ;  saluted  Sam  smilingly ; 
Sam  stammered  shockingly. 

"  Sp-sp-splendid  summer  season,  Sophia." 

"  Somewhat  sultry,"  suggested  Sophia. 

"Sar-sartin,  Soohia,"  said  Sam.  (Silence  seventeen  sec- 
onds.) 

"  Selling  saddles  still,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Sar-sar-sartin,"  said  Sum,  starting  suddenly.  "Season's 
somewhat  soporific,"  said  Sam,  stealthily  staunching  stream- 
ing  sweat,  shaking  sensibly. 

"  Sartin,"  said  Sophia,  smiling  significantly.  "  Sip  some 
sweet  sherbet,  Sam."     (Silence  sixty  seconds.) 

"  Sire  shot  sixty  sheldrakes,  Saturday,"  said  Sophia. 

"  Sixty  ?  sho !  "  said  Sam.  (Silence  seventy-seven  sec- 
onds.) 

"  See  sister  Susan's  sunflowers,"  said  Sophia,  sociably  scat- 
tering such  stiff  silence. 

Sophia's  sprightly  sauciness  stimulated  Sam  strangely :  so 
Sam  suddenly  spoke  sentimentally :  "  Sophia,  Susan's  sun- 
flowers seem  saying,  "Samuel  Short,  Sophia  Sophronia 
Spriggs,  stroll  serenely,  seek  some  sequestered  spot,  some 
sylvan  shade.  Sparkling  Spring  shall  sing  soul-soothing 
strains ;  sweet  songsters  shall  silence  secret  sighing ;  super' 
angelic  sylphs  shall — ' " 

Sophia  snickered :  so  Sam  stopped. 

"  Sophia,"  said  Sam,  solemnly. 

"  Sam,"  said  Sophia. 

"  Sophia,  stop  smiling.  Sam  Short's  sincere.  Sam's  seek- 
ing some  sweet  spouse,  Sophia. 

"  Speak,  Sophia,  speak  !  Such  suspense  speculates  sorrow." 

"  Seek  sire,  Sam,  seek  sire." 

So  Sam  sought  sire  Spriggs.    Sire  Spriggs  said,  "  Sartin." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  77 


MAHMOUD— Leigh  Hunt. 

There  came  a  man,  making  his  hasty  moan 

Before  the  SuUan  Malimoud  on  his  tlirone, 

And  crying  out,  "  My  sorrow  is  my  right, 

And  I  liill  see  the  Sultan,  and  to-night." 

"  Sorrow,"  said  INIahmoud,  "  is  a  reverend  thing: 

I  recognize  its  riglxt,  as  king  witli  king ; 

Speak  on."    "A  iiend  has  got  into  my  house," 

Exckiimed  the  staring  man, '"  and  tortures  us  : 

One  of  thine  officers ;  he  comes,  tlie  abhorred, 

And  takes  possession  of  my  house,  my  board, 

My  bed  : — I  have  two  daughters  and  a  wife, 

And  the  wikl  villain  comes  and  makes  me  mad  with  life." 

"  Is  he  there  now  ?  "  said  Mahmoud.    "  No ; — he  left 

The  house  when  I  did,  of  my  wits  bereft, 

And  laughed  me  down  the  street,  because  I  vowed 

I'd  bring  the  i:)rince  himself  to  lay  him  in  his  shroud. 

I'm  mad  witli  want — I'm  mad  with  misery. 

And  0  thou  Sultan  Mahmoud,  God  cries  out  for  thee  I " 

The  Sultan  comforted  the  man,  and  said, 

"  Go  home,  and  I  will  send  thee  wine  and  bread," 

(For  he  was  ])Oor)  "  and  other  comforts.     Go  : 

And  should  the  wretch  return,  let  Sultan  Mahmoud  know." 

In  three  days'  time,  with  haggard  eyes  and  beard. 

And  shaken  voice,  the  suitor  re-appeared. 

And  said,  "  He's  come."    Mahmoud  said  not  a  word. 

But  rose  and  took  four  slaves,  each  with  a  sword. 

And  went  with  the  vexed  man.    They  reach  the  place, 

And  hear  a  voice,  and  see  a  woman's  face. 

That  to  the  window  fluttered  in  aflright : 

"  Go  in,"  said  IMahmiMid,  "  and  ])ut  out  the  light ; 

But  tell  the  females  first  to  leave  the  room'; 

And  when  the  drunkard  follows  them,  we  come." 

The  man  went  in.    Tliere  was  a  cry,  and  hark ! — 

A  table  falls,  the  window  is  struck  dark  : 

Forth  rush  the  breathless  women  ;  and  behind 

W^ith  curses  comes  the  fiend  in  dcsiicratc!  mind. 

In  vain  :  tins  sabres  soon  cut  siiort  tlic  strife, 

And  chop  the  shrieking  wretch,  and  drink  his  bloody  life. 

"  Now  liriht  the  light,"  the  Sultan  cried  aloud  : 
'Tvvas  done :  he  look  it  in  lih  )i<md  awl  haired 
f}ri'r  till'  ror/)M',  awl  lookid  iijxni  (lie  focc  ; 
Then  liime<l  and  kncU,  and  to  the  throne  of  grace 
2uis* 


78  ONE    HUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Put  tip  a  prayer,  and  from  his  lips  there  crept 
Some  gentle  words  of  pleasure,  and  lie  wept. 

in  reverent  silence  the  beholders  wait, 
Then  bring  him  at  his  call  both  wine  and  meat ; 
And  when  he  had  refreshed  his  noble  heart, 
He  bade  his  host  be  blest,  and  rose  up  to  depart. 

The  man  amazed,  all  mildness  now  and  tears. 
Fell  at  the  Sultan's  feet  with  many  prayers. 
And  begged  him  to  vouchsafe  to  tell  his  slave 
The  reason  first  of  that  command  he  gave 
About  the  light ;  then,  when  he  saw  the  face, 
Why  he  knelt  down ;  and  lastly,  how  it  was 
That  fare  so  poor  as  his  detained  him  in  the  place. 

The  Sultan  said,  with  a  benignant  eye, 

"  Since  first  I  saw  thee  come^  and -heard  thy  cry, 

I  could  not  rid  me  of  a  dread,  that  one 

By  whom  such  daring  villanies  were  done. 

Mast  be  some  lord  of  mine, — ay,  e'en  perhaps  a  son. 

For  this  I  had  the  light  put  out:  but  when 

I  saw  the  face,  and  found  a  stranger  slain, 

I  knelt  and  thanked  the  sovereign  Arbiter, 

Whose  work  I  had  performed  through  pain  and  fear; 

And  then  I  rose  and  was  refreshed  with  food, 

The  first  time  since  thy  voice  had  marred  my  solitude." 


THE  WIVES   OF  BFJXHAM. 

A  TRUE   STORY, 

You  see  the  gentle  water, 

How  silently  it  floats ; 
How  cautiously,  how  steadily, 

It  moves  the  sleepv  boats ; 
And  all  the  little  loops  of  pearl 

It  strews  along  the  sand. 
Steal  out  as  leisurely  as  leaves 

When  summer  is  at  hand. 

But  you  know  it  can  be  angry, 
And  thunder  from  its  rest. 

When  the  stormy  taunts  of  winter 
Are  flying  at  its  breast; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  79 

And  if  you  like  to  listen, 

And  draw  your  chairs  around, 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  did  one  night 

When  you  were  sleeping  sound. 

The  merry  boats  of  Brixham 

Go  out  to  search  the  seas ; 
A  staunch  and  sturdy  fleet  are  they, 

Who  love  a  swinging  breeze ; 
And  before  the  woods  of  Devon, 

And  the  silver  clitfs  of  Wales, 
You  may  see,  when  summer  evenings  fall, 

The  light  upon  their  sails. 

But  when  the  year  grows  darker. 

And  grey  winds  huiit  the  foam, 
They  go  back  to  Little  Brixham, 

And  jjly  their  tuil  at  home. 
And  thus  it  chanced  one  winter's  night, 

When  a  storm  began  to  roar, 
'That  the  sailors  all  were  out  at  sea. 

And  all  the  wives  on  shore. 

Then  as  the  wind  grew  fiercer, 

The  women's  cheeks  grew  white, — 
It  was  fiercer  in  the  twilight, 

And  fiercest  in  the  niglit ; 
The  strong  clouds  set  themselves  like  ice, 

Without  a  star  to  melt, 
The  l)Lu-kness  of  the  darkness 

Was  darkness  to  be  felt. 

The  storm,  like  an  assassin, 

Went  on  its  wicked  way, 
And  struck  a  hundred  boats  adrift. 

To  reel  a])out  the  bay. 
They  meet,  they  crash, — God  keep  the  men  1 

God  give  a  moment's  light ! 
There  is  nothing  but  the  tumult, 

And  the  tempest,  and  the  night. 

The  men  on  shore  wore  anxious, — 

They  dreaded  what  they  knew; 
What  do  you  think  the  women  did? 

Love  tauglit  them  what  to  do! 
Oiitspake  a  wife,  "  We've  beds  at  home. 

We'll  burn  them  for  a  light, — 
Give  us  the  men  and  the  bare  ground! 

We  want  no  more  to-night." 


80  ONE    HUNDRKD    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

They  took  the  grandame's  blanket, 

Who  shivered  and  bade  them  go ; 
They  took  the  baby's  pillow, 

Who  could  not  say  them  no ; 
And  they  heaped  a  great  fire  on  the  pier; 

And  knew  not  all  the  while 
If  they  were  heaping  a  bonfire. 

Or  only  a  funeral  pile. 

And,  fed  with  precious  food,  the  flame 

Shone  bravely  on  the  black, 
Till  a  cry  rang  through  the  people, 

"A  boat  is  coming  back !  *' 
Staggering  dimly  through  the  fog, 

Come  shapes  of  fear  and  doubt ; 
But  when  the  fii^t  prow  strikes  the  pier. 

Cannot  you  hear  them  shout  ? 

Then  all  along  the  breadth  of  flame 

Dark  figures  shrieked  and  ran, 
With,  "  Child,  here  comes  your  father  J" 

Or,  "  Wife,  is  this  your  man  ?  " 
And  faint  feet  touch' the  welcome  stone, 

And  wait  a  little  while  ; 
And  kisses  drop  from  frozen  lips. 

Too  tired  to  speak  or  suaile. 

So,  one  by  one,  they  struggled  in. 

All  that  the  sea  would  spare ; 
We  will  not  reckon  through  our  tears 

The  names  that  were  not  there  ; 
But  some  went  home  without  a  bed, 

When  all  the  tale  was  told. 
Who  were  too  cold  with  sorrow 

To  know  the  night  was  cold. 

And  this  is  what  the  men  must  do 

Who  work  in  wind  and  foam ; 
And  this  is  what  the  women  bear 

Who  watch  for  them  at  home. 
So  when  vou  see  a  Brixham  boat 

Go  out  to  face  the  gales, 
Think  of  the  love  that  travels 

Like  light  upon  her  sails. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  81 


ROLLA'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PERUVIANS. 
R.  B.  Sheridan. 

My  brave  associates,  partners  of  my  toil,  my  feelings,  and 
my  fame !  Can  RoUa's  words  add  vigor  to  the  virtuous  en- 
ergies which  inspire  your  hearts?  No ;  you  have  judged  as 
I  have  the  foulness  of  the  crafty  plea  by  which  these  bold 
invaders  would  delude  you.  Your  generous  spirit  has  com- 
pared, as  mine  has,  the  motives  which,  in  a  war  like  this, 
ciin  animate  their  minds  and  ours. 

They,  by  a  strange  frenzy  driven,  fight  for  power,  for  plun- 
der, and  extended  rule ;  we,  for  our  country,  our  altars,  and 
our  homes.  They  follow  an  adventurer  whom  they  fear, 
and  obey  a  power  which  they  hate ;  Ave  serve  a  monarch 
whom  we  love,  a  God  whom  we  adore.  Whene'er  they  move 
in  anger,  desolation  tracks  their  progress !  whene'er  they 
pause  in  amity,  affliction  mourns  their  friendship. 

They  boast  they  come  but  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge 
our  thoughts;  and  free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error !  Yes,  they 
will  give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are  them- 
selves the  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride.  They  offer 
as  their  protection.  Yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to 
lambs — covering  and  devouring  them. 

They  call  on  us  to  barter  all  of  good  we  have  inherited 
and  proved,  for  the  desperate  chance  of  something  better, 
which  they  promise.  Be  our  plain  answer  this:  The  throne 
we  honor  is  the  people's  choice ;  the  laws  we  reverence  are 
our  brave  fathers'  legacy :  the  faith  we  follow  teaches  us  to 
live  in  bonds  of  charity  with  all  mankind,  and  die  with  hope 
of  bliss  beyond  the  grave.  Tell  your  invaders  this,  and  tell 
them, too,  we  seek  no  change;  and,  least  of  all,  such  changw 
as  they  would  bring  us. 


THE  BAGGAGE  FIEND. 


'Twas  a  ferocious  baggage-man,  with  Atlantean  back. 
And  biceps  upon  cucli  arm  piled  in  a  formidable  slack, 
That  plied  his  dread  vocation  beside  a  railroad  track. 
6  60* 


82  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Wildly  he  tossed  the  baggage  round  the  platform  there,  pe.'I. 
mell, 

And  crushed  to  naught  the  frail  bandbox  where'er  it  shape- 
less fell, 

Or  stove  thg  "  Saratoga  "  like  the  flimsiest  eggshell. 

On  ironclads,  especially,  he  fell  full  ruthlessly. 
And  eke  the  trunk  derisively  called  "  Cottage  by  the  Sea  ;" 
And  pulled  and  hauled  and  rammed  and  jammed  the  same 
vindictively, 

'Until  a  yawning  breach  appeared,  or  fractures  two  or  three. 
Or  straps  were  burst,  or  lids  fell  off,  or  some  catastrophe 
Crowned  his  Satanic  zeal  or  moved  his  diabolic  glee. 

'I'he  passengers  surveyed  the  wreck  with  diverse  discontent, 
And  some  vituperated  him,  and  some  made  loud  lament, 
But  wrath  or  lamentation  on  him  wei'e  vainly  spent. 

To   him   there  came  a  shambling  man,  sad-eyed  and  meek 

and  thin. 
Bearing  an  humble  carpet-bag,  with  scanty  stuff  therein. 
And  unto  that  fierce  baggage-man  he  spake,  with  quivering 

chin  : 

" Behold  this  scanty  carpet-bag!  I  started  a  month  ago. 
With  a  dozen  Saratoga  trunks,  hat-box,  and  ]<ortmanteau. 
But  baggage-men  along  the  route  have  brought  me  down 
thus  low. 

"  Be  careful  with  this  carpet-bag,  kind  sir,"  said  he  to  him. 
The  baggage-man  received  it  with  a  smile  extremely  grim, 
And  softly  whispered  "  Mother,  may  I  go  out  to  swim  ?  " 

Then  fiercely  jumped  upon  that  bag  in  wild,  sardonic  spleen. 
And  into  countless  fragments  flew — to  his  profound  chagrin — • 
For  that  lank  bag  contained  a  pint  of  nitro-glycerine. 

The  stranger  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  and  stroked  his  quivering 

chin. 
And  then  he  winked  with  one  sad  eye,  and  said,  with  smile 

serene, 
"  The  stuff  to  check  a  baggage  man  is  nitro-glycerine  ! " 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTEY  CHURCHYARDi 

Thomas  Gray. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ])loughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  Avay, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  83 

No'A*  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  tlight 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
"Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heialdry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  tliat  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour, — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud  !  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If 'memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  tiu;  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  jjealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  th(!  Hceting  breath? 

Can  honor's  voice  provok(!  tlu;  silent  dust, 
Or  (lattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 


84  ONE    UUNDEED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  ej'es  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast. 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton,  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  "read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  tlie  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life. 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still,  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


I 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  85 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetftilness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  tlie  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  rehes, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  tlcy  late, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  uj^land  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came — nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne:—* 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


THE   EPITAPII. 

Hero  rests  his  head  upon  tlin  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame;  unknown; 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  htnnl)le  l)irth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 


86  ONE    HJNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a  tear, 
He  gained  from  heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


I 


BEAUTIFUL  DREAMS. 

She  lay  unconscious,  in  dreamy  sleep. 
While  her  life-tide  was  ebbing  slowly  ; 

We  knew  she  would  pass  with  the  sinking  sun. 
As  we  watched  by  her  pillow  lowly ; 

And  vainly  we  waited  her  farewell  word, 

One  whisi:)er  only  the  silence  stirred — 

"  Beautiful  dreams !  beautiful  dreams  1 " 

Again  we  listened ;  she  slumbered  on ; 

like  a  leaf  in  the  light  wind  shaken, 
Her  breathing  fluttered,  her  pulse  beat  low, 

We  feared  she  would  never  waken. 
She  lifted  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes. 
And  uttered  again,  in  glad  surprise, 

"  Such  beautiful,  beautiful  dreams ! " 

No  more — on  the  wings  of  those  beautiful  dreams 
She  was  gone,  and  the  day  was  ended  ; 

As  we  folded  her  hands  to  their  last  repose, 
The  evening  shades  descended ; 

And  the  stars  came  out  and  wrote  on  high, 

In  golden  letters,  the  mystery— 

"  Beautiful  dreams !  beautiful  dreams  I " 

Ah  !  no  mere  vision  of  other  days, 

Of  youth's  remembered  story. 
Had  lit  her  fair  and  fading  face 

With  so  rapturous  a  glory. 
Shining  across  death's  pallid  night. 
From  the  land  that  was  breaking  on  her  sight, 
Came  those  beautiful,  beautiful  dreams. 


NUMBER     EIGHT.  87 

White  hands  heckoned  across  the  flood ; 

Sweet  lips  uttered,  "  Come  over !  " 
Eyes  looked  a  welcome  that  never  shone 

In  the  gaze  of  mortal  lover. 
Lingering,  listening,  passing  away. 
She  could  only  smile  upon  us,  and  say, 

"  Beautiful  dreams !  beautiful  dreams ! " 


THE  OLD  CANOE— Albert  Pike. 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep, 
And  the  waters  below  look  dark  and  deep, 
Where  the  rugged  pine,  in  its  lonely  pride, 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  murky  tide, 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  are  long  and  rank, 
And  the  weeds  grow  thick  on  the  winding  bank, 
Where  the  shadow  is  heavy  the  whole  day  through, 
There  lies  at  its  moorings  the  old  canoe. 

The  useless  paddles  are  idly  dropped. 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wings  that  the  storms  had  lopped, 

And  crossed  on  the  railing  one  o'er  one. 

Like  the  fijlded  hands  when  the  work  is  done ; 

While  busily  back  and  forth  between 

The  spider  stretches  his  silvery  screen. 

And  the  solemn  owl,  with  his  dull  "  too-hoo," 

Settles  down  on  the  side  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  stern, half  sunk  in  the  slimy  wave. 

Rots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave. 

And  the  green  moss  cre6ii)S  o'er  its  dull  decay, 

Hiding  its  mouldering  dust  away. 

Like  the  hand  that  i)lants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower, 

Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  falling  tower; 

While  many  a  blossom  of  loveliest  hue 

Springs  up  o'er  the  stern  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  currontless  waters  are  dead  and  still. 
But  till!  light  wind  plays  with  the  boat  at  will, 
And  lazily  in  and  out  again 
It  floats  the  length  of  the  rusty  chain. 
Like  the  weary  march  of  the  hands  of  time. 
That  meet  and  part  at  the  noontide  chime ; 
And  the  shore  is  kissed  at  eacih  turning  anew, 
By  the  drippling  bow  of  the  old  canoe. 


88  ONE   UUNDHED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Oh,  many  a  time,  with  a  careless  hand, 
I  have  piLshed  it  away  from  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  paddled  it  down  where  the  stream  runs  quick, 
Where  the  whirls  are  wild  and  the  eddies  are  thick. 
And  laughed  as  I  leaned  o'er  the  rocking  side, 
And  looked  below  in  the  broken  tide. 
To  see  that  the  faces  and  boats  were  two, 
That  were  mirrored  buck  from  the  old  canoe. 

But  now,  as  I  lean  o'er  the  crumbling  side, 

And  look  below  in  the  sluggish  tide. 

The  face  that  I  see  there  is  graver  grown. 

And  the  laugh  that  I  hear  has  a  soberer  tone, 

And  the  hands  that  lent  to  the  light  skiff  wings 

Have  grown  familiar  with  sterner  things. 

But  I  love  to  think  of  the  hours  that  sped 

As  I  rocked  where  the  whirls  their  white  spray  shed, 

Ere  the  blossoms  waved,  or  the  green  grass  grew 

O'er  the  mouldering  stern  of  the  old  canoe. 


BILL  ARr  OX  THE  EACK.— HE  PLEADS  ALDEE- 
MA2s^'S  DUTIES  AT  TWO  IN  THE  :\IORXIXG. 

E-v-e-r-y  night !  Here  it  is  half-past  one  o'clock.  It's  a 
wonder  you  come  home  at  all !  What — do — you — think — a 
woman — is  made  for?    I  do  believe  if  a  robber  was  to  come 

and  carry  me  off,  you  wouldn't  care  a What  is  it  you  say? 

City  Council  business  must  he  attended  to !  How  do  I  know  you 
go  to  the  city  council  ?  Does  the  city  council  meet  e-v-e-r-y 
night?  Twelve  o'clock — one  o'clock — two  o'clock.  Here  I 
stay  wiih  the  children  all  alone — lying  awake  half  the  night 
waiting  for  you.  Couldn't  come  home  any  sooner  !  Of  course 
you  couldn't  if  you  didn't  want  to.  But  I  know  something ; 
you  think  I  don't,  but  I  do,  that  I  do  ;  I  wish  I  didn't. 
Where  were  you  last  Monday  night?  Tell  me  that.  The 
marshal  told  me  the  city  council  didn't  meet  that  night. 
Now  what  have  you  got  to  say?  CouldnH  get  a  quorum!  Well, 
if  you  couldn't  why  didn't  you  come  home?  Out  e-v-e-r-y 
night — hunting  for — a  quorum.  But  you  wouldn't  hunt  for  uiA 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  89 

this  late  if  I  was  missing.      AVhere  were  you  on  Thursday 
night  and  Friday  night  ?    There  was  a  show  in  town,  wasn't 
there?      What  did  you  buy  that  bottle  of  hair  oil  for,  and 
hide  it?     Oil  for  your  hone,  indeed !    "Who  ever  heard  of  hair 
oil  for  a  whetstone?      So  you  think  I  didn't  see  you  in  the 
other  room  brushing  and  greasing  your  hair,  and  looking  in 
the  glass  at  your  pretty  self !    A  man  ought  to  be  decent !    He 
ought,  ought  he?    Yes,  indeed,  a  man  ought  to,  and  a  deceivi 
man  will  stay  at  home  with  his  wife  sometimes,  and  not  be 
out  e-v-e-r-y  night.      How  comes  it  that  the  city  council 
didn't  meet  but  twice  a  month  last  year?    Tryivg  to  rrork  out 
of  debt!      Yes,  that's  probable — verj-;  laughing  and  joking 
and  smoking  and  swapping  lies  will  work  a  debt  off,  won't 
it  ?      Now — I — want — to — know— how— much— longer — you 
— are — going — to  keep — up — this — night — business.      Yes,  I 
want  to  know.     Out  e-v-e-r-y  night.     City  council,  Free  ]\Ia- 
sons,  shows,  hair  oil — and  brush,  and  brush,  and  brush  until 
you've  nearly  worn  out  the  brush  and  your  head  too.  AVhat 
is  it  you  say?    It  helps  your  business  to  keep  up  your  social  rela- 
tions!   Ah,  indeed!     You've  got  relations  here  at  home,  sir. 
They  need  keeping  up  some,  I  should  think.    What  did  you 
say  about  catching  it  the  other  night  at  a  whist  party?  "  Fel- 
lows, it's  eleven  o'clock,  but  let's  play  a  while  longer  —  we 
won't  catch   it   any   worse  when  we  get  home."      A  pretty 
speecli  for  a  d-e-c-e-n-t  man  to  make !     Catch  it !    Catch  it ! 
Well,  I  intend  you  shall  catch  it— a  little.    What's  that  you 
say?      If  I  vouldnH  frd  you  so  you  ivould  stay  at  home  more ! 
Well,  sir,  do  yon  stay  at  home  first  a  few  nights  and  try  it ; 
l)erhaps  the  fretting  would  stop.   Out  e-v-e-r-y  night  because 
I  fret  you  so.      What's  that,  sir?      You  knoiv  ladies  who  ain't 
ahrays  a-scolding  their  husbands  !      You  do,  do  you?      How 
come  you  to  know  them?  What  business  have  you  to  know 
them?  What  right  have  you  to  know  whether  other  women 
fret  or  not?      That's  always  the  way.     You  men  think  all 
other  women   are  saints  but  your  wives;  oh,  yes,  saints — 
s-a-i-n-t-s!     I'll  have  yini  to  know,  sir,  that  there  i.-^n't  a  wo- 
man in  this  town  that's  more  of  a  saint  than  I  am.     I  know 
them  all,  sir — a  h-e-a-p  better  than  you  do.      You  only  see 
the   sugar  and  honey  side  of  them,  and  1  hey —only— se«  - 


'.)0  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

the — sugar — side — of— you.  Now,  sir,  I  just  want  you  to  know 
that  if  you  can't  stay  at  home  more  than  you  do,  I'll  leave 
these  children  here  to  get  burnt  up,  and  I'll  go  out  e-v-e-r-y 
night.     When  a  poor  woman  gets,  desperate,  why,  sir,  she  ia 

—SHE   IS  DESPERATE,  that's  all. 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 


There's  a  magical  isle  in  the  River  of  Time, 

Where  softest  of  echoes  are  straying ; 
And  the  air  is  as  soft  as  a  musical  chime, 
Or  the  exquisite  breath  of  a  tropical  clime 

When  June  with  its  roses  is  swaying. 

Tis  where  Memory  dwells  with  her  pure  golden  hue, 

And  music  forever  is  flowing : 
While  the  low-murmured  tones  that  come  trembling  through 
Sadly  trouble  the  heart,  yet  sweeten  it  too. 

As  the  south  wind  o'er  water  when  blowing. 

There  are  shadowy  halls  in  that  fairy-like  isle, 

Where  pictures  of  bciuxty  are  gleaming; 
Yet  the  light  of  their  eyes,  and  their  sweet,  sunny  smile. 
Only  flash  rounvl  the  heart  with  a  wildering  wile. 

And  leave  us  to  know  'tis  but  dreaming. 

And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  Beautiful  Past, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  all  there  : 
There  are  beings  of  beauty  too  lovely  to  last ; 
There  are  blossoms  of  snow,  with  the  dust  o'er  them  cast : 

There  are  tresses  and  ringlets  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  only  memory  sings. 

And  the  words  of  a  dear  mother's  prayer ; 
There's  a  harp  long  unsought,  and  a  lute  without  strings — 

Hallowed  tokens  that  love  used  to  wear. 

E'en  the  dead,—  the  bright,  beautiful  dead — there  arise. 

With  their  soft,  flowing  ringlets  of  gold : 
Though  their  voices  are  hushed,  and  o'er  their  sweet  eyes. 
The  unbroken  signet  of  silence  now  lies. 

They  are  with  us  again,  as  of  old. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  hands  are  beckoning  us  there, 

And,  with  joy  that  is  almost  a  pain, 
We  delight  to  turn  back,  and  in  wandering  there. 
Through  the  shadowy  halls  of  the  island  so  fair. 

We  behold  our  lost  treasures  again. 


NUMBEREIGHT.  9J 

Oh !  this  beautiful  isle,  with  its  phantom-like  show, 

Is  a  vista  exceedinglj-  bright : 
And  the  River  of  Time,  in  its  turbulent  flow. 
Is  oft  soothed  b}'  the  voices  we  heard  long  ago, 

When  the  years  were  a  dream  of  delight. 


FAITH  AND  WORKS— Alice  Gary. 

Not  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes  saints  of  us :   all  stifi"  and  cold, 

The  outlines  of  the  corpse  show  through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin, — 
Desj)ite  Ijelief  with  creeds  at  strife, 

The  principle  of  love  within 
Leavens  the  life. 

For  'tis  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 

That  men  do  wrong, — not  wrong's  desire; 
AV rapping  themselves,  as  'twere,  in  flame. 

To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what  God  gives,  but  what  He  takes. 
Uplifts  us  to  the  holiest  height ; 

On  truth's  rough  crags  life's  current  breaks 
To  diamond  light. 

From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 
That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw; 

That  in  confusion,  death,  and  dust, 
Are  light  and  law. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 

A  sense  of  order  and  control. 
My  God,  I  could  not  disbelieve 

My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though,  alas !  I  can  but  see 

A  hand's  l>r('adth  l)ackward,  or  before, 

I  am,  and  since  I  am,  must  be 
Forevermore, 


92  ONE    IIUNDKED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 


DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL— Edward  Irving. 

There  never  was  a  specimen  of  manhood  so  rich  and  en- 
nobled as  David,  the  son  of  Jesse,  whom  other  saints  haply 
may  have  equalled  in  single  features  of  his  character ;    but 
such  a  combination  of  manly,  heroic  qualities,  such  a  flush 
of  generous,  godlike  excellencies,  hath  never  yet  been  seen 
embodied  in  a  single  man.      His  Psalms,  to  speak  as  a  man, 
do  place  him  in  the  highest  rank  of  lyrical  poets,  as  they  set 
him  above  all  the  inspired  writers  of  the  Old  Testament,— 
equalling  in  sublimity  the  flights  of  Isaiah  himself,  and  re- 
vealing the  cloudy  mystery  of  Ezekiel ;  but  in  love  of  coun- 
try, and  glorying  in  its  heavenly  patronage,  surpassing  them 
all.      And  where  are  there  such  expressions  of  the  varied 
conditions  into  which  human  nature  is  cast  by  the  accidents 
of  Providence,  such  delineations  of  deep  affliction  and  in- 
consolable  anguish,   and  anon  such  joy,  such  rapture,  such 
revelry  of  emotion  in  the  worship  of  the  living  God!    such 
invocations  to  all  nature,  animate  and  inanimate,  such  snm- 
monings  o"  the  hidden  powers  of  harmony  and  of  the  breath- 
ing instruments  of  melody !      Single   hymns  of  this  poet 
would  have   conferred  immortality   upon  any  mortal,  and 
borne  down  his  name  as  one  of  the  most  favored  of  the  sons 
of  men. 

But  it  is  not  the  writings  of  the  man  whicn  strike  us  with 
such  wonder,  as  the  actions  and  events  of  his  wonderful  his- 
tory.   He  was  a  hero  without  a  peer,  bold  m  battle  and  gen- 
erous in  \nctorj' :  by  distress  or  by  triumph  never  overcome. 
Though  hunted  hke  a  wild  beast  among  the  mountains,  and 
forsaken  like   a  pelican  in  the  wilderness,  by  the  country 
whose  armies  he  had  dehvered  from  disgrace,  and  by  the 
monarch  whose   daughter  he  had  won,— whose  son  he  had 
bound  to  him  with  cords  of  brotherly  love,  and  whose  own 
soul  he  was  wont  to  charm  with  the  sacredness  of  his  min- 
strelsy, —  he   never  indulged  malice  or  revenge  against  his 
mmatural  enemies.  Twice,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  he  brought 
his  blood-hunter  within  his  power,  and  twice  he  spared  him, 
and  would  not  be  persuaded  to  ijajure  a  hair  upon  his  head, 
—who,  when  he  fell  in  his  high  places,  was  lamented  over 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  93 

l(y  David  with  the  bitterness  of  a  son,  and  his  death  avenged 
upon  the  sacrilegious  man  who  had  hftcd  his  sword  against 
the  Lord's  anointed.  In  friendshiji  and  love,  and  also  in  do- 
mestic affections,  he  was  not  less  notable  than  in  heroic 
endowments ;  and  in  piety  to  God  he  was  most  remarkable 
of  all.  He  had  to  tlee  from  his  bedchamber  in  the  dead 
of  night ;  his  friendly  meetings  had  to  be  concerted  upon 
the  perilous  edge  of  ca])tivity  and  death ;  his  food  he  had  to 
seek  at  the  risk  of  sacrilege ;  for  a  refuge  from  death,  to  cast 
himself  upon  the  people  of  Gath,  to  counterfeit  idiocy,  and 
become  the  laughing-stock  of  his  enemies.  And  who  shall 
tell  of  his  hidings  in  the  cave  of  Adullam,  and  of  his  wan- 
derings in  the  wilderness  of  Ziph, — in  the  weariness  of  which 
he  had  power  to  stand  before  his  armed  enemy  with  all  his 
host,  and,  by  the  generosity  of  his  deeds  and  the  afl'ectionate 
language  which  flowed  from  his  lips,  to  melt  into  childlike 
weeping  the  obdurate  spirit  of  King  Saul,  which  had  the 
nerve  to  evoke  the  spirits  of  the  dead?  King  David  was  a 
man  extreme  in  all  his  excellencies, — a  man  of  the  highest 
strain,  whether  for  counsel,  for  expression,  or  for  action,  in 
peace  and  in  war,  in  exile  and  on  the  throne.  That  such  a 
warm  and  ebullient  spirit  should  have  given  way  before  the 
tide  of  its  affections,  we  wonder  not.  We  rather  wonder 
that,  tried  by  such  extremes,  his  mighty  spirit  should  not, 
often  have  burst  control,  and  enacted  right  forward  the  con- 
queror, the  avenger,  and  the  destroyer. 

To  conceive  arightof  the  gracefulness  and  strength  of  King 
David's  character,  we  must  draw  him  into  comparison  with 
others  in  a  similar  condition,  and  then  we  shall  see  what 
hero  in  the  vain  world  is  to  cope  with  him.  Conceive  a  man 
who  had  saved  his  country  and  clothed  himself  with  grace- 
fulness and  renown  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people  by  the  chiv- 
alry of  his  deeds,  won  f<jr  hhnself  intermarriage  with  the 
royal  line,  and  by  unction  of  the  Lord's  prophet  been  set 
apart  to  the  throne  itself;  such  a  one  conceive  driven  with 
fury  from  house  and  hold,  and  through  tedious  years  desert- 
ed of  every  stay  but  heaven,  with  no  soothing  sympathies 
of  quiet  life,  harassed  forever  l>etween  fanune  and  the  edge 
of  the  sword,  and  kept  in  savage  holds  and  deserts ;  and  Idl 
us,  in  the  annals  of  men,  of  one  so  disapponited,  so  oereaved 
2cc 


94  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

and  straitened,  maintaining  not  fortitude  alone,  but  a  sweat 
comijosure  and  a  heavenly  frame  of  soul,  inditing  praise  to 
no  avenging  deity,  and  couching  songs  in  no  revengeful 
mood,  according  with  his  outcast  and  unsocial  life ;  but  in- 
diting praises  to  the  God  of  mercy,  and  songs  which  soar 
into  the  third  heavens  of  the  soul, — not,  indeed,  without  th& 
burst  of  sorrow  and  the  complaint  of  solitariness,  and  pro- 
phetic warnings  to  his  bloodthirsty  foes,  but  ever  closing  in 
sweet  preludes  of  good  to  come,  and  desire  of  present  con- 
tentment. Find  us  such  a  one  in  the  annals  of  men,  and  we 
yield  the  argument  of  this  controversy.  Men  there  have 
been,  driven  before  the  wrath  of  kings  to  wander  outlaws 
and  exilas,  whose  musings  and  actings  have  been  recorded 
to  us  in  the  minstrelsy  of  our  native  land.  Draw  these  songs 
of  the  exile  into  comparison  with  the  Psalms  of  David,  and 
know  the  spirit  of  the  man  after  God's  own  heart;  ^he  stern 
defiance  of  the  one,  with  the  tranquil  acquiescence  of  the 
other ;  the  deep  despair  of  the  one,  with  the  rooted  trust 
of  the  other;  the  vindictive  imprecations  of  the  one,  with 
the  tender  regret  and  forgiveness  of  the  other.  Show  us  an 
outlaw  who  never  si^oiled  the  country  which  had  forsaken 
him,  nor  turned  his  hand  in  self-defence  or  revenge  upon 
his  persecutors, — who  used  the  vigor  of  his  arm  only  against 
the  enemies  of  his  countiy, — yea,  lifted  up  his  arm  in  be- 
half of  that  mother  whicli  had  cast  her  son,  crowned  with 
salvation,  away  from  her  bosom,  and  held  him  at  a  distance 
from  her  love,  and  raised  the  rest  of  her  family  to  hunt  him 
to  the  death ;  in  the  defence  of  that  thankless,  unnatural 
mother-country,  find  us  such  a  repudiated  son  lifting  up  his 
arm  and  spending  its  vigor  in  smiting  and  utterly  discomfit- 
ing her  enemies,  whose  spoils  he  kept  not  to  enrich  him- 
self and  his  ruthless  followers,  but  dispensed  to  comfort  her 
and  her  happier  children.  Find  us,  among  the  Themistocles 
and  Coriolani  and  Cromwells  and  Napoleons  of  the  earth, 
such  a  man,  and  we  will  yield  the  argument  of  this  contro- 
versy which  we  maintain  for  the  peerless  son  of  Jesse. 

But  we  fear  that  no  such  another  man  is  to  be  found  in 
the  recorded  annals  of  men.  Though  he  rose  from  the  peas- 
antry to  fill  the  throne  and  enlarge  the  borders  of  his  native 
laud,  he  gave  himself  neither  to  ambition  nor  to  glory; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  95 

though  more  basely  treated  than  the  sons  of  men,  he  gave 
not  place  to  despondency  or  revenge  ;  tliough  of  the  highest 
genius  in  poetry,  he  gave  it  not  license  to  sing  his  own  deeds, 
nor  to  depict  loose  and  licentious  life,  nor  to  ennoble  any 
Worldly  sentiment  or  attachment  of  the  human  heart,  how- 
e\er  virtuous  or  honorable,  but  constrained  it  to  sing  the 
praises  of  God  and  the  victories  of  the  right  hand  of  the 
Lord  of  hosts,  and  his  admirable  works  which  are  of  old 
from  everlasting.  And  he  hath  dressed  out  religion  in  such 
a  rich  and  beautiful  garment  of  divine  poesy  as  beseemeth 
her  majesty,  in  which,  being  arrayed,  she  can  stand  up,  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  her  enemies,  in  more  royal  state  than  any 
personification  of  love  or  glory  or  pleasure  to  which  highly- 
gifted  mortals  have  devoted  their  genius. 

The  force  of  his  character  was  vast,  and  the  scope  of  his 
life  was  immense.  His  harp  was  full-stringed,  and  every 
angel  of  joy  and  of  sorrow  swept  over  the  chords  as  ho 
passed;  but  the  melody  always  breathed  of  heaven.  And 
such  oceans  of  affection  lay  within  his  breast  as  could  not 
always  slumber  in  their  calmness  ;  for  the  hearts  of  a  hun- 
dred men  strove  and  struggled  together  within  the  narrow 
continent  of  his  single  heart.  And  will  the  scornful  men 
have  no  sympathy  for  one  so  conditioned,  but  scorn  hiiiibe- 
pause  he  ruled  not  with  constant  quietness  the  unruly  host 
i>f  divers  natures  wliich  dwelt  within  his  single  soul  ?  Of  self- 
command  surely  he  will  not  be  held  deficient  who  endured 
Saul's  javelin  to  be  so  often  launched  at  him,  while  the  peo- 
ple without  were  willing  to  hail  him  king;  Avho  endured  all 
Ixjilily  hardships  and  taunts  of  his  enemies  when  revenge 
was  in  his  hand,  and  ruled  his  desjierate  band  like  a  com- 
pany of  saints,  and  restrained  them  from  their  country's  in- 
jury. But  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  ena(;t  all  characters 
without  a  fault,  tlie  simple  shepherd,  the  conquering  hero, 
and  the  romantic  lover;  the  perfect  friend,  the  innocent  out- 
law, and  the  royal  monarch  ;  the  poet,  the  prophet,  and  the 
regenerator  of  the  churcli ;  and  withal  the  man,  the  man 
of  vast  soul,  who  played  not  these  parts  bv  turns,  but  wag 
the  original  of  them  all,  and  wholly  present  in  them  all, — 
oh!  that  he  should  have  fulfilled  this  higli-priesthood  of  hu- 
Kia.'j'tv.  this  universal  ministry  of  manhood,  witliout  an  error, 


96  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

were  more  than  human  !  With  the  defence  of  his  backslid- 
ings,  which  he  hath  himself  more  keenly  scrutinized,  more 
clearly  discerned  against,  and  more  bitterly  lamented  than 
any  of  his  censors,  we  do  not  charge  ourselves ;  but  if,  when 
of  these  acts  he  became  convinced,  he  be  found  less  true  to 
God,  and  to  righteousness ;  indisposed  to  repentance  and 
sorrow  and  anguish ;  exculpatory  of  himself ;  stout-hearted 
in  his  courses ;  a  formalist  in  his  penitence,  or  in  any  way 
less  worthy  of  a  spiri-tual  man  in  those  than  in  the  rest  of 
his  infinite  moods,  then,  verily,  strike  him  from  the  canon, 
and  let  his  Psalms  become  monkish  legends,  or  what  you 
please.  But  if  these  penitential  Psalms  discover  the  soul's 
deepest  hell  of  agony,  and  lay  bare  the  iron  ribs  of  misery, 
whereon  the  very  heart  dissolveth  ;  and  if  they,  expressing 
the  same  in  words,  shall  melt  the  soul  that  conceiveth  and 
bow  the  head  that  uttereth  them, — then,  we  say,  let  us  keep 
these  records  of  the  Psalmist's  grief  and  despondency  as  the 
most  precious  of  his  utterances,  and  sure  to  be  needed  in 
the  case  of  every  man  who  essayeth  to  live  a  spiritual  life. 


DER  BABY. 

So  help  me  gracious,  efery  day 
I  laugh  me  wild  to  see  der  vay 
My  small  young  baby  drie  to  play — 
Dot  funny  leetle  baby. 

Vhen  I  look  on  dhem  leetle  toes, 
Und  saw  dot  funny  leetle  nose, 
Uud  heard  der  vay  dot  rooster  crows, 
I  schmile  like  I  was  grazy. 

Und  vhen  I  heard  der  real  nice  vay 
Dhem  beoples  to  my  wife  dhej'  say, 
"  More  like  his  fater*  every  day  " 
I  vas  so  proud  like  blazes. 

Sometimes  dhere  comes  a  leetle  schquall. 
Dot's  vhen  der  vindy  vind  vill  crawl 
Riglid  in  its  leetle  schtoniach  sc-hniall, — 
Dot's  too  bad  for  der  baby. 

*Dot  vas  me  Uiiusult. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  97 

Dot  makes  him  sing  at  night  so  schveet, 
Und  gorrybarric  he  must  eat, 
Und  I  must  chumb  shbry  on  my  feet, 
To  help  dot  leetle  baby. 

He  bulls  my  nose  and  kicks  my  hair, 
Und  grawls  me  ofer  everywliere, 
Und  shlobbers  me — but  vat  I  care  ? 

Dot  vas  my  schmall  young  baby. 

Around  my  head  dot  leetle  arm 
Vas  schqueezin  me  so  nice  and  varm — 
Oh  !  may  dhere  never  coom  some  harm 
To  dot  schmall  leetle  baby. 


THE  SPIRITUAL  TEMPLE. 

"And  the  house,  when  it  was  in  building,  was  liuilt  of  stone  made  ready  be* 
fore  it  was  brouglit  thither:  so  that  there  was  neitlier  hamiuer  nor  axe  nor  any 
tool  of  iron  heard  in  the  house,  while  it  was  in  building." — 1  Kracs,  vi.  7. 

And   whence,  then,  came  these  goodly  stones  'twas  Israel's 

pride  to  raise, 
The  glory  of  the  former  house,  the  joy  of  ancient  days ; 
In  i)urity  and  strength  erect,  in  radiant  sjjlendor  l)right, 
Sparkling  with  golden  beams  of  noon,  or  silver  smiles  of 

night? 

From  coasts  the  stately  cedar  crowns,  each  noble  slab  was 

brought. 
In  Lebanon's  deep  quarries  hewn,  and  on  its  mountains 

wrought ; 
There  rung  the  hammer's  heavy  stroke  among  the  echoing 

rocks. 
There  cha.sed  the  chisel's  keen,  sharp  edge,  the  rude,  unsha- 

pen  blocks. 

Thence    polished,    perfected,  complete,  each  fitted  to  its 

place. 
For  lofty  coping,  massive  wall,  or  deep  imbedded  base. 
They  bore  them  o'er  the  waves  that  rolled  their  billowy  swell 

between 
The  shores  «f  Tyre's  imperial  pride  and  Judah's  hills  of  green. 

7  61 


OS  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

With  gradual  toil  the   work  went  on,  through  clays  and 

months  and  years, 
Beneath  the  summer's  laughing  sun,  and  winter's  frozen 

tears ; 
And  thus  in  majesty  sublime  and  noiseless  pomp  it  rose, — 
Fit  dwelling  for  the  God  of  Peace, — a  temjjle  of  repose ! 

Brethren  in  Christ !  to  holier  things  the  simple  type  apply  ; 

Our  God  himself  a  temple  builds,  eternal  and  on  high, 

Of  souls  elect ;    their  Zion  there — that  world  of  light  and 

bliss ; 
Their  Lebanon — the  place  of  toil — of  previous  moulding— 

this. 

From  nature's  quarries,  deep  and  dark,  with  gracious  aim  he 

hews 
The  stones,  the  spiritual  stones,  it  pleaseth  him  to  choose : 
Hard,  rugged,  shapeless  at  tbe  first,  yet  destined  each  to 

shine, 
Moulded  beneath 4iis  patient  hand,  in  purity  divine. 

Oh,  glorious  process !    see  the  proud  grow  lowly,  gentle, 

meek  ; 
See  floods  of  unaccustomed  tears  gush  down  the  hardened 

cheek : 
Perchance  the  hammer's  heavy  stroke  o'erthrew  some  idol 

fond  ; 
Perchance  the  chisel  rent  in  twain  some  precious,  tender 

bond. 

Behold,  he  prays  whose  lips  were  sealed  in  silent  scorn  be- 

fore, — 
Sighs  for  the  closet's  holy  calm,  and  hails  the  welcome  door  : 
Behold,  he  works  for  Jesus  now,  whose  days  went  idly  past ; 
Oh  for  more  mouldings  of  the  hand  that  works  a  change  so 

vast! 

Ye  looked  on  one,  a  well- wrought  stone,  a  saint  of  God  ma- 
tured,— 

What  chiselings  that  heart  had  felt,  what  chastening  strokes 
endured ! 

But  marked  ye  not  that  last  soft  touch,  what  perfect  grace  it 
gave, 

Ere  Jesus  bore  his  servant  home  across  the  darksome  wave? — 

Home  to  the  place  his  grace  designed  that  chosen  soul  to 

fill, 
In  the  bright  temple  of  the  saved,  "  upon  his  holy  hill ; " 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  99 

Home  to  the  noiselessness,  the  peace,  of  those  sweet  shrines 
above,  ^ 

Whose  stones  shall  never  be  displaced  —  set  in  redeeming 
love. 

Lord !  chisel,  chasten,  pohsh  ns,  each  blemish  work  away, 
Cleanse  us  with  purifying  blood,  in  spotless  robes  array; 
And  thus,  thine  image  on  us  stamped,  transport  us  to  the 

shore, 
Where  not  a  stroke  is  ever  felt,  for  none  is  needed  more. 


THE  SEXTON.— Park  Benjamin. 


Nigh  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made. 
Leaned  a  sexton  old  on  his  earth-worn  spade; 
His  work  was  done,  and  he  paused  to  wait 
The  funeral-train  at  the  open  gate. 
A  relic  of  by-gone  days  was  he. 
And  his  locks  were  gray  as  the  foamy  sea ; 
And  these  words  catne  from  his  lips  so  thin : 
"  I  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in — 
Gather — ^gather — I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in  ;  for  man  and  boy, 

Year  after  year  of  grief  and  joy, 

I've  builded  the  houses  that  lie  around 

In  every  nook  of  this  burial  ground. 

Mother  and  daughter,  father  and  son. 

Come  to  my  solitude  one  l)y  one ; 

But  come  they  stranger,  or  come  they  kin, 

I  gather  them  in — I  gatlier  them  in. 

"Many  are  with  me,  yet  I'm  alone ; 

I'm  King  of  the  Dead,  and  I  make  my  throne 

On  a  moniunent  slab  of  marble  cold — 

My  scei)tre  (jf  rule  is  the  spade  I  hold. 

Come  they  from  cottage,  or  come  they  from  liall, 

Mankind  are  my  subjects,  all,  all,  all ! 

May  they  loiter  in  pleasure,  or  toilfully  spin, 

I  gather  them  in — 1  gather  them  in. 


100  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

"  I  gather  tliem  in,  and  their  final  rest 

Is  here,  down  here,  in  the  eartli's  dark  breast!" 

And  the  sexton  ceased  as  the  funeral-train 

Wound  mutely  over  that  solemn  jjlain ; 

And  I  said  to  myself:    When  time  is  told, 

A  mightier  voice  than  that  sexton's  old. 

Will  be  heard  o'er  the  last  trump's  dreadful  din, 

"  I  gather  them  in — I  ga'^her  them  in — 

Grather — gather — gather  them  in." 


A  DIEGE.— George  Croly. 


"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dast  to  dust ! " 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just. 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold. 
Here  the  matron  and  the  maid, 
.In  one  silent  bed  are  laid  ; 
Here  the  vassjil  and  the  king  j; 

Side  by  side  lie  withering ;  _  ^ 

Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust —  a 

"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !  ** 

Age  on  age  shall  roll  along 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng; 
Those  that  wept  them,  they  that  weep. 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep; 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm. 
Summer's  sun,  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace,  or  battle's  roar. 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more ; 
Death  shall  keep  his  sullen  trust — 
*'  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  I " 

But  a  day  is  coming  fast-- 
Earth,  thy  mjghtiest  and  thy  last! 
X,t  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder. 
Heralded  by  trump  and  thunder; 
It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil. 
It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil ; 
It  shall  come  in  empires'  groans, 
Burning  temples,  ruined  thrones; 
Then,  ambition,  rue  thy  lust ! 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! " 


1 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  101 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign ; 
In  the  east  the  King  shall  shine, 
Flasliing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousiinds,  thousands,  round  his  state : 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume ; 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb ! 
Heaven  shall  open  on  thy  sight, 
Earth  be  turned  to  living  light, — 
Kingdom  of  the  ransomed  just : 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust." 

Then  thy  mount,  Jerusalem, 
Shall  be  gorgeous  as  a  gem ! 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  Paradise  ; 
Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God ! 
Till  are  dried  the  martyr's  tears. 
Through  a  thousand  glorious  years! 
Now  in  hope  of  him  we  trust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust." 


A  MODEL  LOVE-LETTER. 

My  Dear  Mrs.  M :     Every  time  I  think  of  you,  my 

heart  flops  up  and  down  like  a  churn-dasher.  Sensations 
of  exquisite  joy  caper  over  it  like  young  goats  on  a  stable-roof, 
and  thrill  through  it  like  Spanish  needles  through  a  pair  of 
tow  linen  trowsers.  As  a  gosling  swimmeth  with  delight  in 
a  mud-paddle,  so  swim  I  in  a  sea  of  glory.  Visions  of  ecsta- 
tic rapture  thicker  than  the  hairs  of  a  blacking-brush,  and 
brighter  than  the  hues  of  a  humming-bird's  pinions,  visit  me 
in  my  sluml)ers,  and  borne  on  their  invisible  wings,  your 
image  stands  before  me,  and  I  reach  out  to  grasp  it  like  a 
pointer  snaj)ping  at  a  blue-bottle  fly. 

When  I  first  beheld  your  angelic  perfections,  I  was  bewil- 
dered, and  my  brain  whirled  around  like  a  bumble-bee  under 
a  glass  tumbler.  My  eyes  stood  open  like  cellar  dpors  in  a 
coimtry  town,  and  I  lifted  up  my  ears  to  catch  the  silvery 
accents  of  your  voice.  My  tongue  refused  to  wag,  and  in  si- 
lent adoration  I  drank  in  the  sweet  infection  of  love  as  a 
2cc* 


102  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

thirsty  man  swalloweth  a  tumbler  of  hot  whisky  punch. 

Since  the  Ught  of  your  face  fell  upon  my.  life,  I  sometimes 
feel  as  if  I  could  lift  myself  uji  by  my  boot-straps  to  the  top 
of  the  church-steeple,  and  pull  the  bell-rope  for  singing- 
school. 

Day  and  night  you  are  in  my  thoughts.  When  Aurora, 
blushing  like  a  bride,  rises  from  her  saflron  colored  couch ; 
when  the  jay-bird  pipes  his  tuneful  lay  in  the  apple-tree  by 
the  spring-house ;  when  the  chanticleer's  shrill  clarion  her- 
alds the  coming  morn  ;  when  the  awaking  pig  ariseth  from 
his  bed  and  grunteth,  and  goeth  for  his  morning's  refresh- 
ments ;  when  the  drowsy  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight  at 
sultry  noontide ;  and  when  the  lowing  herds  come  home  at 
milking-time,  I  think  of  thee ;  and  like  a  piece  of  gum-elas- 
tic, my  heart  seems  stretched  clear  across  my  bosom. 

Your  hair  is  like  the  mane  of  a  sorrel  horse  powdered  with 
gold ;  and  the  brass  pins  skewered  through  your  waterfall 
fill  me  with  unbounded  awe.  Your  forehead  is  smoother 
than  the  elbow  of  an  old  coat ;  your  eyes  are  glorious  to  be- 
hold ;  in  their  liquid  depths  I  see  legions  of  little  Cupids 
bathing,  like  a  cohort  of  ants  in  an  old  army  cracker.  When 
their  fire  hit  me  upon  my  manly  breast,  it  penetrated  my 
whole  anatomy,  as  a  load  of  bird-shot  through  a  rotten  apple. 
Your  nose  is  from  a  chunk  of  Parian  marble,  and  your  mouth 
is  puckered  with  sweetness.  Nectar  lingers  on  your  lips,  like 
honey  on  a  bear's  paw ;  and  myriads  of  unfledged  kisses  are 
there,  ready  to  fly  out  and  light  somewhere,  like  blue-birds 
out  of  their  parents'  nest.  Your  laugh  rings  in  my  ears  liko 
the  wind-harp's  strain,  or  the  bleat  of  a  stray  lamb  on  a  bleak 
hillside.  The  dimples  on  your  cheeks  are  like  bowers  on 
beds  of  roses,  or  hollows  in  cakes  of  home-made  sugar. 

I  am  dying  to  fly  to  thy  presence,  and  pour  out  the  burn- 
ing eloquence  of  my  love,  as  a  thrifty  housekeeper  pours  out 
hot  cotfee.    Away  from  you  I  am  melancholy  as  a  sick  rat. 

Sometimes  I  can  hear  the  June  bugs  of  despondency  buzzing 
in  my  ears,  and  feel  the  cold  lizards  of  despair  crawling  down 
my  back.  Uncouth  fears,  like  a  thousand  minnows,  nibble 
at  my  spirits ;  and  my  soul  is  pierced  with  doubts,  as  an  old 
cheese  is  bored  with  skippers. 
My  love  for  you  is  stronger  than  the  smell  of  Coffey's  pat'. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  103' 

ent  butter,  or  the  kick  of  a  young  cow,  and  more  unselfish 
than  a  kitten's  first  caterwaul.  As  a  song-bird  hankers  for 
the  light  of  day,  the  cautious  mouse  for  the  fresh  bacon  in 
the  trap,  as  a  mean  pup  hankers  after  new  milk,  so  I  long  for 
thee. 

You  are  fairer  than  a  speckled  pullet,  sweeter  than  a  Yan- 
kee doughnut  fried  in  sorghum  molasses,  brighter  than  a 
topknot  plumage  on  a  muscovy  duck.  You  are  candy,  kisses, 
raisins,  pound  cake,  and  sweetened  toddy  all  together. 

If  these  remarks  will  enable  you  to  see  the  inside  of  my 
Boul,  and  me  to  win  your  afiections,  I  shall  be  as  happy  as  a 
■woodpecker  on  a  cherry  tree,  or  a  stage-horse  in  a  green  pas- 
ture. If  you  cannot  reciprocate  my  thrilling  passion,  I  will 
pine  away  like  a  poisoned  bedbug,  and  fall  away  from  a  flour- 
ishing vine  of  life,  an  untimely  branch ;  and  in  the  coming 
years,  when  the  shadows  grow  from  the  hills,  and  the  philo- 
sophical frog  sings  his  cheerful  evening  hymns,  you,  happy 
in  another's  love,  can  come  and  drop  a  tear  and — catch  a 
cold  upon  the  last  resting-place  of 

Yom-s  afiectionately,  H. 


k 


THE  DEATII-RIDE.— Westland  Maestoh. 

A   TALE   OF   THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE. 

"We  sat  mute  on  our  chargers,  a  handful  of  men, 
As  tlie  foe's  broken  columns  swept  on  to  tlic  glen, 

Like  torn  trees  when  tlie  whirlwind  comes: 
Cloven  helm  and  rent  banner  grew  dim  to  our  ken, 

And  faint  was  the  throb  of  their  drums. 

"  But,  no  longer  pursued,  where  the  gorge  opens  deep. 
They  halt  ;  with  their  glms  they  crowd  level  and  steep, 

Seems  eacii  volley  s<»ine  incjnster's  breath, 
Who  shows  cannon  for  tecitli  as  hi;  crouches  to  leap, 

From  his  ambushed  cavern  of  death. 


104  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  Their  foot  throng  the  defile,  they  surge  on  the  bank ; 
Darts  a  forest  of  lances  in  front ;  o'er  each  flank 

Peer  the  muskets — a  grisly  flock  : 
They  have  built  their  live  tower  up,  rank  upon  rank, 

And  wait,  fixed,  for  an  army's  shock. 

"  Far  in  front  of  our  lines,  a  dot  Dn  the  plain : 
Mute  and  moveless  we  sat  till  his  foam-flecked  rein 

At  our  side  gjillant  Nolan  drew : 
'  They  still  hold  our  guns,  we  must  have  them  again,' 

Was  his  message — 'Advance,  pursue  1 ' 

"  Pursue  them  !— What,  charge  with  our  hundreds  the  foe 
Whose  massed  thousands  await  us  in  order  below ! 

Yes,  such  were  his  words.    To  debate 
The  command  was  not  ours  ;  we  had  but  to  know 

And,  knowing,  encomiter  our  fate. 

"  We  ride  our  last  march— let  each  crest  be  borne  high  ! 
We  raise  our  last  cheer— let  it  startle  the  sky 

And  the  land  with  one  brave  farewell ; 
For  soon  nevermore  to  our  voice  shall  reply 

Rock,  hollow,  fringed  river,  or  dell. 

"  Let  our  trump  ring  its  loudest ;  in  closest  array, 
Hoof  for  hoof,  let  us  ride :  for  the  chief  who  to-day 

Reviews  us,  is  Death  the  Victorious  : 
Let  him  look  up  to  Fame,  as  we  perish,  and  say, 

'  Enrol  them— the  fall'n  are  the  glorious ! ' 

"  We  spur  to  the  gorge,  from  its  channel  of  ire 
Livid  light  bursts  like  surf,  its  spray  leaps  in  fire ; 

As  the  spare  of  some  vessel  staunch, 
Bold  hearts  crack  and  fall ;  we  nur  swerve  nor  retire. 

But  in  the  mid-tempest  we  launch. 

"  We  cleave  the  smoke-billows,  as  wild  waves  the  prow ; 
The  flash  of  our  sabres  gleams  straight  like  the  glow 

AVhich  a  ])luughing  keel  doth  break 
From  the  grim  seas  around,  with  light  on  her  bow, 

And  light  in  her  surging  wake. 

"  We  dash  full  on  their  guns— through  the  flare  and  the  roar 
Stood  the  gunners  bare-armed;,  now  they  stand  there  no 
more ; 

The  war-throat  waits  dumb  for  the  ball : 
For  those  men  ])ale  and  mazed  to  the  chine  we  shore, 

And  their  own  cannons'  smoke  was  their  pall. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  105, 

"That  done,  we're  at  bay ;  for  the  foe,  with  a  yell 
Piles  his  leijions  around  us.    Their  bayonets  swell 

Line  on  line  ;  we  are  planted  in  steel: 
'  Good  carbine !   trusty  blade !     Each  shot  is  a  kuell, 

Each  sword-sweep  a  fate — they  reel ! ' 

"  One  by  one  fall  our  men,  each  girt  with  his  slain, 
A  death-star  with  belts !    '  Charge !   we  break  them !  '--Tm 
vain  1 

From  the  heights  their  batteries  roar ! 
The  fire-sluices  burst ;  through  that  flood,  in  a  rain 

Of  iron,  we  strike  for  the  shore. 

"Thunder  answers  to  thunder,  bolts  darken  the  air, 
To  breathe  is  to  die  ;  their  funeral  glare 

The  lit  hills  on  our  brave  ones  rolled  : 
"What  of  that?    They  had  entered  the  lists  with  Despair, 

And  the  lot  which  they  met  they  foretold. 

"  Comrade  sinks  heaped  on  comrade.    A  ghastly  band 
That  fell  tide,  when  it  ebbs,  shall  leave  on  the  strand: 

Of  the  swimmers  who  stemmed  it  that  day, 
A  spent,  shattered  remnant  we  struggle  to  land, 

And  wish  we  were  even  as  they." 


O  Britain,  my  country! '  Thy  heart  be  the  tomb 
Of  those  who  for  thee  rode  fearless  to  doom, — 

The  sure  doom  which  they  well  foreknew ; 
Though  mad  was  the  summons,  they  saw  in  the  gloom 

Dl'ty  beckon — and  followed  lier  through. 

She  told  not  of  trophies, — of  medal  or  star, 
Or  of  Glory's  sign-manual  graved  in  a  scar. 

Or  how  England's  coasts  shall  resound 
When  brothers  at  home  greet  their  brothers  from  war 

As  they  leap  upon  English  ground. 

• 

She  told  not  of  streets  lined  with  life  up  to  heaven, 
One  vast  heart  with  one  cry  till  the  welkin  is  riven — 

"  Oh,  welcome,  ye  valiant  and  tried  !  " 
She  told  not  of  soft  arms  that  clasp  the;  re-given; 

She  only  said  "  Die  !  "  and  they  died. 

^^ 
Let  Devotion  hencefoth  Balakhiva  own, 
No  less  than  Thermopyhe,  meet  {'•tr  her  throne; 

And  thou,  Hritain — tiiou  mother  bereft — 
By  thy  grief  for  the  sleepers  who  hear  not  thy  moan 

C'oimt  the  worth  of  ttie  sons  thou  hast  left. 

61* 


106  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


«AEE  YOU  A  MASON?" 

Uov.  Mr.  Magill,  Kector  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  Peru,  lUiuois,  bciug  asked  the 
abovu  questiou  by  a  lady,  responded  as  follows: 

I  am  of  a  band 

Who  will  faithfully  stand 
In  the  bonds  of  affection  and  love ; 

I  have  knocked  at  the  door, 

Once  wretched  and  poor, 
And  there  for  admission  I  strove. 

By  the  help  of  a  friend, 

Who  assistance  did  lend, 
I  succeeded  an  entrance  to  gain ; 

AVas  received  in  the  West, 

By  command  of  the  East, 
But  not  without  feeling  some  pain. 

Here  my  conscience  was  taught 

With  a  moral  quite  fraught 
With  sentiments  holy  and  true ; 

Then  onward  I  traveled. 

To  have  it  unraveled. 
What  Hiram  intended  to  do. 

Very  soon  to  the  East 

I  made  known  my  request, 
And  "  light "  by  command  did  attend ; 

When  lo !  I  perceived, 

In  due  form  revealed, 
A  Master,  and  Brother,  and  Friend. 

Thus  far  I  have  stated 

And  simply  related 
What  happened  when  I  was  made  free; 

But  I've  "  passed"  since  then, 

And  was  'iraised"  up  again 
To  a  sublime  and  ancient  degree. 

Then  onward  I  marched, 

That  I  might  be  "  arched," 
And  find  out  the  treasures  long  lost ; 

When  behold !  a  bright  flame, 

From  the  midst  of  which  came 
A  voice  which  my  ears  did  accost. 

Through  the  "  veils  "  I  then  went, 
And  succeeded  at  length 
The  "  Sanctum  Sanctorum  "  tu  find ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  107 

By  the  "  Signet "  I  gained, 
And  qnickly  obtained 
Employment,  whieh  suited  my  mind. 

In  the  depths  I  then  wrought. 

And  most  cheerfully  sought 
For  treasures  long  hidden  there ; 

And  by  labor  and  toil 

I  discovered  rich  spoil, 
Which  are  kept  by  the  craft  with  due  care. 

Having  thus  far  arrived, 

I  further  contrived 
Among  vahant  Knights  to  appear; 

And  as  Pilgrim  and  Knight     ^ 

I  stood  ready  to  tight,  "* 

Nor  Saracen  foe  did  1  fear. 

For  the  widow  distressed 

There's  a  choixl  in  my  breast ; 
For  the  orphan  and  helpless  I  feel; 

And  my  sword  I  could  draw 

To  maintain  the  pure  law 
Which  duty  the  Masons  reveal. 

Thus  have  I  revealed 

(Yet  wisely  concealed,) 
Wliat  the  "  free  and  accepted  "  well  know ; 

I  am  one  of  the  band 

Who  will  faithfully  stand 
As  a  brother,  wherever  I  go. 


ORATORY  AND  THE  PRESS— Daniel  DoucnERTY. 

The  grand  days  of  oratory  are  gone  forever.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  the  teeming  future  may  give  birth  to  those 
whose  resplendent  genius  will  deservedly  rank  them  among 
the  immortals  of  the  past.  Certain  it  is  that  Oratory  can 
never  be  lost  while  Liberty  survives. 

Twin  born  with  Freedom,  then  with  her  took  breath, 
That  art  whoBo  (lyinR  will  tie  Freedoin'H  death. 

But  for  all  this,  the  glory,  the  pride,  and  the  power  of  tho 
orator  have  passed  away.      In  the  ••.lassi<»l  commonwealtlu 


108,  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

of  old,  the  aspirations  of  the  patricians  were  for  oratory  oi 
arms,  and  not  a  few,  like  Ciesar,  excelled  in  both.  The  Sen- 
ate convened  or  the  people  met  in  grand  assembly  to  hear 
discussed  the  weighty  questions  affecting  the  welfare  of  the 
State.  There  the  orator  appeared.  His  whole  brain  and 
soul  were  bent  on  moving  those  whom  he  addressed — ho 
hud  no  thoughts  beyond.  If  others  disputed,  it  brought  into 
play  the  highest  flights  of  rival  genius,  ^schines,  contest- 
ing with  Demosthenes,  called  forth  the  "  Oration  on  the 
Crown."  The  orators  then  were  the  leaders  of  the  nation, 
the  directors  of  public  opinion,  the  controllers  of  legislation, 
the  arbiters  of  peace  or  war.  At  home  they  were  the  idols 
of  the  people, — abroad  they  were  the  guests  of  kings.  They 
were  the  marked  men  of  the  world. 

But  in  these  latter  days  there  has  risen  a  power  mightier 
than  an  army  of  orators ;  a  power  that  has  dwarfed  their 
genius,  destroyed  their  influence,  and  lowered  them  to  the 
level  of  ordinary  mortals ;  a  power  that  can  banish  kings, 
destroy  dynasties,  revolutionize  governments,  embroil  na- 
tions in  triumphant  or  disastrous  wars,  and  for  good  or  ill  is 
changing  the  aspect  of  the  civilized  world.  The  glory  of  the 
orator  sank  when  the  ijrinting  press  arose.  The  orator,  at 
best,  can  speak  to  thousands ;  the  press  to  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands. The  orator  speaks  rarely  ;  the  press  every  day.  The 
orator  may,  at  the  choicest  moment,  fail  from  ill  health  or 
one  of  many  causes ;  the  press,  free  from  all  the  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to,  moves  on  its  mission  with  the  facility,  power, 
and  })recision  of  machinery.  The  orator  may  move  an  audi- 
ence ;  the  press  can  arouse  a  nation.  The  speech  dies  with 
the  sounds  that  give  it  birth ;  the  press  lives  forever  on  the 
imperishable  page.  The  orator  noiv  addresses  himself  less  to 
the  audience  of  the  evening  than  to  the  world  of  readers 
of  the  next  morning. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  press  may  be  faithful,  pure,  devoted 
to  truth,  right,  justice,  freedom,  and  virtue,  as  the  orators 
have  been.  The  orators— let  me  repeat  it  to  their  immortal 
honor — could  never  be  silenced  by  the  frowns  of  power,  or 
bribed  to  desert  a  noble  cause.  They  dared, — they  defied 
tyranny,  and  preferred  death  to  dishonor.  If  the  press  gloat 
in  licentiousness;  if  it  stoop  to  strike  the  private  man;  if  if 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  109 

exijosc  to  the  public  gaze  the  sacred  privacy  of  homes ;  if  it 
violate  all  decency  in  thrusting  gentle  woman  to  the  gossips 
of  the  town ;  if  it  catch  at  idle  rumor  or  envious  tongues  to 
malign  the  innocent ;  if  it  can  be  bribed  to  suppress  the 
truth,  or  circulate  the  falsehood;  if  it  shield  the  public 
wrong-doer,  and  denounce  the  faithful  public  servant ;  if  it 
pander  to  the  base  passion  of  the  populace — then  we  may 
grieve  that  this  great  engine  should  work  such  mischief  to 
society. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  its  mission  be  to  disseminate  intel- 
ligence and  truth,  to  educate  the  masses  to  be  faithful  to 
their  country  and  just  to  their  fellow-men,  to  expose  with 
an  unsparing  hand  to  public  execration  the  corrupt  legisla- 
tor or  the  unjust  judge ;  if  it  l)e  honestly  independent  in- 
stead of  timidly  neutral  in  all  that  concerns  the  city  and 
State ;  if  it  lift  up  modest  and  true  worth  and  hurl  down 
brazen  infamy;  if  all  its  aims  be  the  public  good,  the  honor 
of  the  nation,  and  the  glory  of  God — then  we  may  be  well 
reconciled  that  the  days  ©f  oratory  are  over. 

"  Loud  as  a  scandal  on  the  ears  of  town, 
And  just  as  brief  the  orator's  renown ; 
Tear  after  year  debaters  blaze  and  fade, 
Scarce  marked  the  dial  e'er  depart  the  shade. 
Words  die  so  soon  when  fit  but  to  be  said, 
Words  only  live  when  worthy  to  be  read." 


THE  riCTURE. 


Matches  are  made  for  many  reasons — 

For  love,  convenience,  money,  fun,  and  spite  ; 
How  many  against  common  sense  are  treasons! 

How  few  tlie  happy  pairs  who  match  aright! 
In  the  fair  breast  of  some  bewitching  dame. 

How  many  a  youth  will  strive  fond  love  to  waken 
And  when,  at  length,  successful  in  his  aim, 

lie  first  luiH-lcd,  and  afterwards  raiH-takiti  / 
Then  curse  his  fate,  at  matrimf)ny  sweur, 
And,  like  jwor  Adam,  have  a  rih  to  spare! 
How  many  ladies, — s[)eculating  dears! — 
Will  make  six  matches  in  so  many  years, 


110  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

So  fast,  sometimes,  the  amoroas  gudgeons  bite ; 

Others,  hke  bungUiig  housemaids  in  the  dark, 

Will  fret  and  fume,  and  lose  full  many  a  spark, 
And  never,  never  get  a  matcli,  to  light, — 
Nor  think  their  want  of  skill  the  job  could  hinder, 
But  lay  the  fault  upon  the  plaguy  tinder. 
Old  men  young  women  wed — by  way  of  nurses ; 
Young  men  old  women — ^just  to  fill  their  purses: 
Nor  young  men  only — for  'tis  my  belief 

(Nor  do  I  think  the  metaphor  a  bold  one,) 
"When  folks  in  life  turn  over  a  new  leaf, 

Why  very  few  would  grumble  at  a  gold  one  !  f 

A  worthy  knight,  yclept  Sir  Peter  Pickle, 

By  love  was  made  to  look  exceeding  glumpy ; 
The  maid  whose  charms  had  power  his  heart  to  tickle, 

Was  Miss  Cordelia  Carolina  Crumpy ; 
This  said  Sir  Peter  was,  as  you  shall  hear. 

Although  a  knight,  as  poor  as  any  poet ; 
But  handsome  as  Apollo  Belvidere, 

And  vain  Sir  Peter  seemed  full  well  to  know  it. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  Miss  Cordelia  Crumjiy 

Could  not  unmoved  hear  such  a  lover  sue ; 
Sweet,  sympathetic  maiden,  fat  and  stumpy. 

Green-eyed,  red-haired,  and  turned  of  sixty-two  I 

But  tell  me,  Muse,  what  charm  it  was  could  tickle 

The  once  invincible  Sir  Peter  Pickle: 

Was  it  her  eyes — that,  so  attached  to  one  day, 

Looked  piously  seven  different  ways  for  Sunday? 

Was  it  her  hump,  that  had  a  camel  suited  ? 

Her  left  leg,  bandy? — or  her  right,  club-footed? 

Or  nose,  in  shape  so  like  a  liquor  funnel? 

Or  mouth,  whose  width  might  shame  the  Highgate  tunuel  ? 

Was  it  the  beauties  of  her  face  combined — 

A  face — (since  similes  I  have  begun  on,) 
Not  like  a  face  that  I  can  call  to  mind, 

Except  the  one  beneath  the  Regent's  cannon  ? 
No,  gentle  friends ;  although  such  beauties  might 
Have  warmed  the  bosom  of  an  anchorite. 
The  charm  that  made  our  knight  all  milk  and  honey 
Was  that  infallible  specific — Money ' 

Peter,  whom  want  of  brass  had  made  more  brazen. 
In  moving  terms  began  his  love  to  blazon  : 
Bigh  after  sigh  in  quick  succession  rushes. 

Nor  are  the  labors  of  his  lungs  in  vain  ; 
Her  cheek  soon  crimsons  with  consenting  blushea 

Ked  as  a  chimney-pot  just  after  rain ! 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  Ill 

The  Ik-ense  bought,  he  marries  her  in  haste, 
Brings  home  his  bride,  and  gives  his  friends  a  gay  day; 

All  his  relations,  wondering  at  his  taste, 

Vowed  he  had  better  had  the  Pig-faced  Lady ! 

Struck  with  this  monstrous  lump  of  womankind, 

The  thought  of  money  never  crossed  their  mind. 

The  dinner  o'er,  the  ladies  and  the  bride 

Retired,  and  wine  and  chat  went  round  jocosely ; 
Sir  Peter's  brother  took  the  knight  aside. 

And  questioned  him  about  the  matter  closely: 
"Confound  it,  Peter!  how  ciune  you  to  pitch 
On  such  an  ugly,  squinting,  squabby  witch? 
A  man  like  you,  so  handsome  and  so  knowing; 
Your  wits,  my  friend,  must  surely  be  a-going ! 
Who  could  have  thought  you  such  a  tasteless  oaf, 

To  wed  a  lump  of  odd-come  shorts  and  bits, 

That  Madame  Nature,  in  her  merry  fits, 
Had  jumbled  into  something  like  a  face ! 
With  skin  as  black  as  if  she  charcoal  fed  on, 
Crooked  and  crusty,  like  an  outside  loaf; 
A  remnant  of  an  ourang-outang  face — 
Eve's  grandmother,  with  the  serpent's  head  on  ! 
What  spell  coul(J  into  such  a  hobble  throw  you?" 
"  Just  step  upstairs,"  says  Peter,  "  and  I'll  show  you." 

Upstairs  they  went : — "  There,  there's  her  picture  !  say, 

Is  it  not  like  her,  sir? — Your  judgment,  pTay." 

"  Like  her.  Sir  Peter! — take  it  not  uncivil — 

'Tis  like  her — and  as  ugly  as  the  devil ; 

Witii  just  her  squinting  leer;  but,  hang  it!  what 

A  very  handsome  frame  it's  got, — 

So  richly  gilt,  and  so  superbly  wrought !  " 

"  You're  right,"  says  Peter,  "  'twas  the  frame  that  caught: 

I  grant  my  wife  is  ugly,  squabby,  old. 

But  still  she  pleases — being  set  in  gold; 

Let  others  for  tlie  picture  feel  a  flame, 

I,  my  good  brother,  married  for  the  frame  " 


BEN  FISHER.— Frances  Dana  Gage. 

Ben  Fisher  had  finished  his  harvesting, 
And  he  stood  by  his  garden  gate. 

One  foot  on  the  rail,  and  one  on  tlio  ground, 
As  he  called  to  his  good  wife  Kate. 


112  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

There  were  stains  of  toil  on  his  wamus  red, 

Tlie  dust  of  the  field  on  his  hat ; 
But  a  twinkle  of  pleasure  was  in  his  eye, 

As  he  looked  at  his  stock  so  fat. 

"  Here,  give  me  the  babe,  dear  Kate,  you  are  tired, 

And  I  fear  you  have  too  much  care  ; 
You  must  rest,  and  pick  up  a  little,  I  think, 

Before  we  can  go  to  the  fair. 
I'd  hate  to  be  taking  fat  cattle,  you  know. 

Fat  hogs,  fat  sheep,  and  fat  cows. 
With  a  wife  at  my  elbow  as  poor  as  a  crow, 

And  care-wrinkles  seaming  her  brows.  . 

« '  Can't  go ' !    Why  not  ?    '  Can't  afford  the  expense ' ! 

I  know,  Kate,  our  crops  aren't  the  best ; 
But  we've  labored  together  to  keep  things  along, 

And  together  we'll  now  take  a  rest. 
The  frost  blighted  the  fruit,  but '  Brindle '  is  prime, 

And  '  Jinny '  and  '  Fan '  are  a  show  | 
Your  butter  and  cheese  can't  be  beat  in  the  State, 

So  up  to  the  fair  we  will  go. 

• 
"  You've  ne'er  seen  a  city,  and  Cleveland  is  fine, — 

Never  seen  the  blue,  billowy  lake ; 
Ne'er  rode  in  a  rail-car,  nor  been  in  a  throng, — 

So,  Kate,  this  short  journey  we'll  take ; 
And  gather  new  feelings,  new  thoughts,  and  new  ways, 

If  we  find  those  that  suit,  as  we  roam ; 
And  garner  up  strength  in  head,  heart,  and  hand. 

For  the  loves  and  the  duties  of  home. 

"  I  sometimes  have  thought,  as  I  plodded  along, 

For  months,  o'er  the  same  weary  round, 
That  another  who  had  such  a  real  hard  time, 

In  Ohio  could  nowhere  be  found. 
But  when  I've  been  called  from  my  home  for  a  while, 

And  seen  how  the  world  gets  along, 
I've  come  back  to  toil  with  a  light,  cheerful  heart, 

And, '  There's  no  place  like  home,'  for  my  song. 

"I wonder  that  mothers  don't  wholly  despair, 

Who  ne'er  from  their  cares  get  away, 
But  walk  the  same  tread-wheel  of  duty  for  years, 

Scarce  stopping  to  rest,  night  or  day. 
No  wonder  they  grow  discontented  sometimes, 

Their  feelings  get  raspy  and  cold ; 
For  toil  never  ending,  and  labor  uncheered. 

Make  women — and  men  sometimes — scold." 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  113 

Kate  looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  said,  "  Ben,  we  will  go ; 

There  may  be  stock  fatter  than  ours, 
Horses  swifter  of  foot,  cows  finer  by  far, 

Better  butter  and  cheese,  fruit  and  flowers ; 
But  there's  one  thing,  I  claim,  that  can't  be  surpassed 

In  the  whole  Yankee  nation  to-daj' — 
I  would  not  exchange  for  '  a  kingdom  to  boot ' — 

That's  my  '  gade  man  ! ' " — and  Kate  ran  away. 


THE  THREE  BELLS.— John  G.  Whittiee. 

Tliis  poem  refers  to  the  well-known  rescue  of  the  crew  of  an  Amcrioan  ves- 
sel, sinking  in  mid-ocean,  by  Captain  Leijihton,  of  the  Englisli  ship  Three  Bells. 
I'naMe  to  take  them  otf,  in  tlie  night  and  the  storm,  ho  stayed  liy  tlicm  until 
morning,  shouting  to  them  from  time  to  time  through  his  trumpet,  "  Kever  fear, 
hold  on,  I'll  stand  by  you." 

Beneath  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  sijlintering  mast, 

Tlie  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  .signal  guns  pealed  out ; 
Dear  God  !  was  that  thy  answer, 

From  the  horror  round  about? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, — 

"  Ho  !  ship  ahoy  !  "  its  cry  : 
"  Our  stout  Three"  Bells  of  Glasgow 

Shall  stand  till  daylight  by !  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly. 

Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 
To.ssed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights, — 

The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells. 

And  ship  to  .shij)  made  signals ; 

Man  answered  l)ack  to  man  ; 
Wliile  oft,  to  clieer  and  liearten, 

The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran. 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  liis  liojx'fiil  cry: 
"Tiike  lie;irt!  liold  on!"  lie  slioiited, 
"Tlie  Three  Bells  shall  stand  by!" 
8 


114  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

All  night  across  the  waters 
The  tossing  Ughts  shone  clear ; 

All  night  from  reeling  taftriiil 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 

In  grateful  memory  sail ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale ! 

As  thine,  in  night  and  tempest, 

I  hear  the  Master's  cry. 
And,  tossing  through  the  darkness, 

The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh. 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


A  FOREST   HYMN.— W.  C.  Bryant. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.    Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them,— ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 

And  otfered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication. 

For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
AVhich,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place. 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  owe 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty. 

Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
Tliut  our  frail  hands  have  raised?    Let  me,  at  least, 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  115 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  ancient  wood, 
Otfer  one  hymn — thrice  happy  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thj^  hand 
Hatli  reared  these  venerable  columns ;  thou 
Didst  weave  tliis  verdant  roof.    Tlion  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earih,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.    They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.    The  century-living  crow, 
AVhose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark. 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshiper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker. 

These  dim  vaults. 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.    But  tliou  art  here — thou  flU'st 
The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground. 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  tliee. 
Here  is  continual  worship  ;  nature,  here,  » 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence. 

Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes;  and  you  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth,  and,  wandering,  steeps  the  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good'it  does.    Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades. 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 
Are  here  to  speak  of  thee. 

This  mighty  oak. 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 
Almf)st  annihilated,— not  a  prince 
In  all  that  i)roud  old  world  beyond  the  deep 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 
Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  nf)t  in  the  glare 
Of  the  Ijroad  sun.     That  delicate  fcirest  fiower 
With  scented  lircatli,  and  iimk  so  like  a  smile, 
Seem.s,  as  it  issues  fruni  the  shapeless  mould, 


ilG  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  vi.sible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  aw'ed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die — butsee  again 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses— ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.    These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Molder  beneath  them. 

Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries. 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies. 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death— yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne,the  sepulclire. 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 

Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 

The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 

Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 

Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 

Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 

But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 

Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  rea.ssure 

My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 

The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 

And  tremble  and  are  still. 

O  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call. 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overAvhelms 
Its  cities, — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strife  and  folly  by  ? 


NUMBER    EIGHT. 

Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  iace 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.    Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  wi_)rks 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


11? 


IF  WE  WOULD. 

If  we  would  but  check  the  speaker, 
AVlien  he  spoils  a  neighb(jr's  fame ; 

If  we  would  but  help  the  erring, 
Ere  we  utter  words  of  blame  ; 

If  we  would,  how  many  might  we 
Turn  from  paths  of  sin  and  shame ! 

Ah,  the  wrongs  that  might  be  righted, 
If  we  would  but  see  the  way ! 

Ah,  the  pains  that  might  be  brightened, 
Every  hour  and  every  day. 

If  we  would  but  hear  the  pleadings 
Of  the  hearts  that  go  astray ! 

Let  us  step  outside  the  stronghold 
Of  our  selfishness  and  pride  ; 

Let  us  lift  our  fainting  brothers ; 
Let  us  strengthen  ere  we  chide ; 

Let  us,  ere  we  blarne  the  fallen, 
Hold  a  light  to  cheer  and  guide. 

Ah,  how  blessed  !— ah,  how  blessed 
Earth  woukl  be  if  we'd  but  try 

Thus  to  aid  and  right  the  weaker, 
Tluis  to  clieck  each  brother's  sigh;— 

Tlius  to  walk  in  duty's  pathway 
To  our  better  life  on  high ! 

In  each  life,  however  lowly. 

There  are  seeds  of  mighty  good; 

Still  W(!  shrink  from  souls  apjiealing 
With  a  timid  "  If  we  could,"— 

But  (iod,  who  judgclh  all  things, 
Knows  the  truth  is,  "  If  we  would." 
2nn 


118  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE.— Washington  Irving, 
(his  return  after  the  long  sleep  in  the  mountains.) 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop 
of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which 
he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he 
passed.  The  very  village  was  altered ;  it  was  larger  and 
more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had 
never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar 
haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors, 
—strange  faces  at  the  windows, — everjlhing  was  strange. 

His  mind  now  misgave  him  ;  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely 
this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  be- 
fore. There  stood  the  Kaatskill  mountains, — there  ran  the 
silver  Hudson  at  a  distance, — there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been.  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed. 
<'  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor 
head  sadly." 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  "My 
very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth.  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  for- 
lorn, and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolation  overcame 
all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and 
children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his 
voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 


NUMBEU    EIGHT.  Ill) 

of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats, 
and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jona- 
than Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shel- 
ter the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared 
a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like 
a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  tluttering  a  flag  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes ; — all  this  was 
strange  and  incom])reliensible. 

He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  Avhich  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful 
pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red 
coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  bufl',  a  sword  was  held 
in  his  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  witli 
a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  charac- 
ters, General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Kip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Ved- 
der,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  ut- 
tering clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents 
of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious- 
looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  har- 
anguing vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — elections — 
members  of  Congress — liberty— Bunker's  Hill — heroes  of 
Seventy-six — and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Baby- 
lonish jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women 
and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
tavern-politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him 
from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  Tlic  orator  bustled 
up  to  him,  and,  drawing  liim  partly  aside,  inquired  "  on  which 
Bide  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another 
short  but  busy  little  fellow  i)ull('d  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising 
on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  whether  he  was  a  Federal  or 
Democrat  ?  " 

Jiiji   was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question  ; 


120  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp 
cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them 
to  the  right  and  the  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and 
planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  shar])  hat 
penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded,  in  an 
austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun 
on  his  shoulder  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whethe-  he 
meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  ?  "  "  Alas  !  gentlemtui," 
cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a 
native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him ! " 

.  Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "A  toiy  I 
a  tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him !  away  with  him ! "  It 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  tl\e 
cocked  hat  restored  order  ;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold 
austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit, 
what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but 
merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who 
used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well — who  are  they?    name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 

"  Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  w^hile,  when  an  old  man  re- 
plied, in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is 
dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years  !  There  was  a  wooden 
tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Dutcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point,— 
others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Anth- 
ony's Nose.     I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia  general, 
and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.      Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such 


KUMBER    EIGHT.  121 

enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not 
understand :  war — Congress— Stony  Point ; — he  had  no  more 
courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  de- 
spair, "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle ! "  exclaimed  two  or  three, "  oh,  to  be 
sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 
Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself, 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  cer- 
tainly as  ragged.  The  pour  fellow  was  now  completely  con- 
founded. He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was 
himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment, 
the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what 
was  his  name. 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end ;  "  I'm  not 
myself— I'm  somebody  else— that's  me  yonder — no — that's, 
somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't 
tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  I " 

At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed 
through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man. 
She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at 
his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you 
little  fool ;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  tho 
child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awak- 
ened a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What's  yoiir 
name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name?" 

"  Ah,  poor  man.  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  homo  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since, — hi;^  dog  came  home 
without  him  ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  lit- 
tle girl." 

Rip  had  ])ut  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice : 

"  Where's  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since;  she  broke  a 
blood  vessel  in  a  lit  of  jja-ssion  at  a  New  England  ped'ller." 

62 


122  ONE    HUNDRED    CnOICE    SELECTIONS 

There  was'  a  drop  of  comfort  at  least  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father! " 
cried  he,  "  young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once— old  Kip  Van  Win- 
kle now !— Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering 
under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enoufdi ! 
it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle— it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbor.  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years?"  ***** 

Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer  for 
a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who 
was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he 
was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an  hered- 
ita/  Y  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 


THE  SNOW-STORM.— C.  G.  Eastman. 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like  the  chime 

Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea ; 
The  moon  is  full,  but  her  silver  light 
The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings  to-night; 
And  over  the  sky,  from  south  to  north, 
Not  a  star  is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down — all  day, 

As  it  never  came  down  before. 
And  over  the  hills  at  sunset  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet  or  more : 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone ; 
The  windows  blocked,  and  the  well-curbs  gone ; 
The  hay-stack  had  grown  to  a  mountain-lift; 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 


NUMBEU    EIGHT.  123 

The  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow, 

While  the  air  grows  sharp  and.  cliiil, 
And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  blow 

Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill : 
And  the  Norther!     See,  on  the  mountain-peak, 
In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek  5 
He  shouts  on  tlie  plain,  Ho-ho !  ho-lio ! 
He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 

And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air! 
Sits  a  shivering  dog  in  a  field  by  the  road, 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair; 
He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind,  and  growls ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and  howls ; 
Then,  crouching  low  from  the  cutting  sleet. 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet ; 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

A  farmer  came  from  the  village  plain. 

But  he  lost  the  traveled  way ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod  with  might  and  main 

A  patli  for  his  horse  and  sleigh  ; 
But  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew, 
And  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew ; 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown, 
At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered  down, 

Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied  snort. 

She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow. 
While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow  : 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight ; 
His  hands  were  numb,. and  had  lost  their  might; 
So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled  sleigh. 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 

With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein, 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed; 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 

For  help  in  his  master's  need ; 
For  awhile  he  strives  witli  a  wistful  cry,  « 

To  catch  a  ghmce  from  his  drowsy  eye, 
And  wiigs  his  tail  if  tiie  rude  winds  tiap 
The  skirt  of  the  Ijuffalo  over  his  lap. 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 


124  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  wind  trees  clown  and  the  storm  is  o'er, — 

'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight,  past ; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  hend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast ; 
The  silent  moon,  with  her  peaceful  light, 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow  all  white; 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
Of  the  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stumji, 

Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But,  cold  and  dead,  by  the  hidden  log 

Are  they  who  came  from  the  town, — 
The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog, 

Aiid  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown, — 
In  the  wide  snow  desert,  far  and  grand, 
AV'ith  his  cap  on  his  head,  and  the  reins  in  his  hand; 
The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet. 
And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet, 
Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 


IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN.— A.  A.  Hopkins. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongiie  or  pen 

TLu  Siiddest  are  these — "  It  luight  have  been." — Whittieb. 

There's  a  dolorous  cheat  in  the  words  so  sweet, 

For  their  sadness  is  hardly  real ; 
Or  the  sadness  they  tell,  as  my  heart  knows  well. 

Is  at  most  but  a  sad  ideal. 
We  may  picture  the  vanishing  yesterday 
In  the  rarest  of  tints,  or  in  sombre  gray ; 
'Twas  a  glad,  glad  time  since  it  left  us  here. 
And  there's  never  a  cause  for  a  sigh  or  tear ; 
It  might  have  been  worse,  and  the  good  we  sought 
Might  have  proved  with  the  saddest  of  sorrows  fraught. 

When  the  poet  had  sung  with  his  silver  tongue 

Of  a  fanciful  sorrow  fleeting. 
Had  he  never  a  line  for  the  joys  divine 

That  are  ever  our  lives  completing? 
We  may  breathe  of  the  shadows  our  days  have  known 
Should  our  breathings  forever  the  shades  bemoan  ; 
Should  we  sigh  when  we  tell  of  the  dim  twilight  ? 
There  might  have  been  darkness  of  darkest  night, 
And  we  might  have  been  left  in  the  gloom  to  grope. 
With  never  a  gleam  from  the  star  of  hope. 


NUMBER    EIGUT.  123 

In  the  struggle  and  strife  of  this  wearing  life, 

AVhen  we  long  for  a  rest  worth  winning, 
Let  us  think  of  the  woe  that  our  souls  might  know 

In  an  idleness  dark  with  sinning. 
Wheu  we  sail  our  bark  over  stormy  waves 
"Without  tinding  the  harbor  our  heart  most  craves, 
And  we  think  had  we  sailed  on  another  track, 
We  should  never  have  wi.shed  to  be  sailing  back  ; 
Let  us  think,  though  the  waters  are  hardly  fair. 
That  we  might  have  found  utterest  shipwreck  there. 

There  are  troubles  and  tears  in  the  round  of  years. 

When  there  might  have  been  peace  and  laughter; 
But  the  peace  might  have  led  to  a  deeper  dread 

And  a  greater  disquiet  after ; 
And  the  laughter  outringing  so  clear  and  glad, 
Might  have  ended  in  tears  of  all  tears  most  sad ; 
For  the  current  of  pleasure  more  closely  Hows 
By  the  river  of  sorrow  than  human  knows, 
And  we  never  may  tell,  as  they  onward  wend, 
When  the  sweet  with  the  bitter  may  interblend. 

There  were  wonderfid  dreams  with  theirglad'ning gleams 

That  were  full  of  delight  and  beauty  ; 
There  are  wearying  ways  in  the  loug  to-days, 

That  are  part  of  our  path  of  duty ; 
And  the  way  might  have  brightened  with  blossoms  sweet, 
And  there  might  have  been  roses  beneath  our  feet ; — 
Ah,  yes,  but  the  way  of  the  "might  have  been" 
Might  have  led  us,  perchance,  to  the  wilds  of  sin  ; 
While  the  path  of  the  present,  though  rough  indeed, 
To  a  beautiful  country  at  last  may  lead. 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN? 

'Way  back  from  the  eclioing  ages  comes  that  sad  and 
mournful  strain,  "it  miglit  have  been."  What  might  have 
been?  Who  sorrows  to-night  as  they  look  backward  an<l 
wish  life  had  been  difTcrent?  Wlio  nmurns  over  some  early 
folly  and  borrows  troul>le  day  after  day  fnjm  those  unhappj' 
words?  Is  it  you,  child  of  the  world?  Is  it  you,  lone  wan- 
derer?  Ife  ihere,  I  iisk,  a  land  of"  might  have  been  "?    If  so. 


126  ONE    UUNDKED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

where  can  it  be  found  ?  I  have  often  heard  of  it,  but  I  never 
succeeded  in  ascertaining  its  precise  situation.  Somewhere 
in  the  past,  no  doubt.  I  really  should  like  to  visit  such  a 
land.  What  a  multitude  of  "  mights  "  must  lie  there  togeth- 
er, what  aspirations,  what  noble  deeds  never  destined  to 
have  been  performed !  Yet  from  whitened  lips  comes  the 
whisper,  "  It  might  have  been."  No,  dear  hearers,  it  could 
not  be,  because  you,  or  some  one  else,  would  not  allow  it. 
Year  by  year  we  hear  the  words,  day  after  day ;  they  have 
been  the  subject  of  many  a  discourse  and  essay.  We  hear 
and  read  them,  wondering  who  indulges  in  the  "  might  have 
been "  delusion,  instead  of  striving  with  the  present  and 
saying,  "  it  shall  be."  It  is  useless  to  mourn  over  the  past,  for 
it  does  not  brighten  it,  and  the  moments  thus  wasted  will  in 
future  cause  more  thoughts  as  to  what  "  might  have  been." 

It  is  good  for  every  heart  to  commune  with  seV  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  but  when  hours  are  spent  in  useless  repining  it 
ceases  to  be  beneficial.  Many,  thinking  they  have  failed  in 
nearly  every  great  task  they  wished  to  accomplish,  will  rJso 
think  it  is  useless  to  undertake  anything  more.  "  It  might 
liave  been,"  if  perseverance  had  not  been  lacking,  but  as  it 
was,  it  could  never  have  been. 

Let  not  such  thoughts  possess  dominion  over  us.  Let  us 
have  a  fairy  picture  of  what  is  to  be,  drawn  in  gorgeous  col- 
ors ;  let  us  spare  neither  time,  pains,  pencil,  nor  paint.  Let 
our  hearts  be  in  the  M'ork,  and  with  unfaltering  trust  look 
upon  the  map  of  the  future,  i^erceiving  the  destined  goal  we 
are  to  reach,  after  much  labor.  Turn  not  to  the  right  or  left ; 
look  not  behind  us  lest  we  become  mere  drones.  Leave  the 
land  of  "  might  have  been  "  for  weary  ones  to  people ;  as  foi 
us,  we  must  build  a  city  in  the  land  of  To  Be.  A  city  to  at' 
tract  strangers,  where  beauties  of  mind  .shall  not  be  forgot- 
ten in  dress  beauty ;  where  life  shal'  iiotbe  devoted  entirely 
to  self  and  sensual  gratification  ;  where  love  shall  erect  a 
fortress  and  defend  our  city  from  intruders.  And  how  shall 
love  deal  with  enemies?  It  shall,  by  its  kind  teachings  and 
gentle  influence,  win  them  to  our  cause.  Every  day  we  shall 
witness  the  increase  of  numbers,  and  with  light  hearts 
and  pleasant  countenances  move  among  our  little  band,  dis- 
tributing peace  and  good  will.    ]\Iy  land  is  the  land  of  To  Be. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  127 

A  way  with  past  regrets,  for  if  my  present  opportunities 
are  improved  I  shall  have  enough  to  occupy  my  mind.  If 
we  mourn  for  the  past,  we  shall  waste  valuable  time,  and 
the  future  will  find  us  with  drooping  heads  mourning  over 
these  wasted  moments.  Let  not  "  it  might  have  been  "  be 
inscribed  over  our  tombstone  when  we  die,  to  prove  that 
our  life  was  a  failure.  Rather  let  it  be,  "  Well  done,  thou 
good  and  faithful  servant :  enter  thou  uj^on  the  heritage 
t>f  the  just." 


THE  LOST  HEin.— TiiojiAS  Hood. 

"Oh  wliTe,  and  oli  wliore 
Is  ruy  buuiiie  laddiu  gone?" — Old  Song. 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 

Tliat  chilled  my  very  blood ; 
And  lo !   from  out  a  dirty  alley. 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 
I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaubed  with  grease  and  mud. 
She  turned  her  east,  she  turned  her  west, 
Htaring  like  Pythoness  possessed, 
Witli  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 
This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran, 
Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man, — 
Her  right  hand  held  a  frying  pan, 

The  left  a  lump  of  beef. 
At  last  lier  frenzy  seemed  to  reach 
A  point  just  capable  of  speech. 
And  with  a  tone  almost  a  screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  l)irds, 
Or  female  Ranter  ni<n'ed  to  preach, 

She  "  gave  her  sorrow  words  " : 

**  O  Lord  !  oh,  dear,  my  heart  will  break,  I  shall  go  stick  stark 

staring  wild ! 
Has  ever  a  one  s(*on  anything  about  il\<i  streets  like  a  crying 

lost-looking  child? 


J28  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONR 

Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to  nin,  if  1 

only  knew  which  way — 
A  child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  especially  Seven 

Dials,  is  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay. 
I  am  all  in  a  quiver— e;et  out  of  my  sight,  do,  you  wretch, 

you  little  Kitty  M'Nab ! 
You  promised  to  have  half  an  eye  to  him,  you  know  you 

did,  you  dirty  deceitful  young  drab ! 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was  with  my 

own  blessed  motherly  eyes. 
Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing  at  making  lit- 
tle dirt  pies. 
I  wonder  he  left  the  court  where  he  was  better  off  than  all 

the  other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-bhells,  and  a  dead 

kitten  by  way  of  toys. 
When  his  father  comes  home,  and  he  always  comes  home  as 

sure  as  ever  the  clock  strikes  one, 
He'll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  being  lost,  and  tho 

beef  and  the  inguns  not  done ! 
La  bless  yQU,  good  folks,  mind  your  own  consarns,  and  don't 

be  making  a  mob  in  the  street; 
0  Sergeant  M'Farlane !    you  have  not  come  across  my  poor 

"little  boy,  have  you,  in  your  beat? 
Do,  good  people,  move  on !  don't  stand  staring  at  me  hke  a 

parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs ; 
Saints  forbid!    but  he's  p'r'aps  been  inviggled  away  up  a 

court  for  the  sake  of  his  clothes  by  the  prigs ; 
He'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought  it  myself 

for  a  shilling  one  day  in  Eag  Fair ; 
And  his  trowsers  considering  not  very  much  patched,  and 

red  plush,  they  was  once  his  fothcr's  best  pair. 
His  shirt,  it's  very  lucky  I'd  got  washing  in  the  tub,  or  that 

might  have  gone  with  the  rest ; 
But  he'd  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with  only  two  slits  and 

a  burn  on  the  breast. 
He'd  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown  was  sewed  in,  and 

not  quite  so  much  jagged  at  the  brim. 
With   one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a  hoot,  and  not  a 

fit,  and  you'll  know  by  that  if  it's  him. 
Fxcept  being  so  well  dressed,  my  mind  would  misgive,  some 

old  beggar  woman  in  want  of  an  orphan 
Had  borrowed  the  child  to  go  a  begging  with,  but  I'd  rather 

see  him  laid  out  in  his  coffin  ! 
Do,  good  people,  move  on !  such  a  rabble  of  boys !  I'll  break 

every  bone  of  'em  I  come  near ; 
Go  home— you're   spilling  the  porter— go  home,— Tommy 

Jones,  go  along  home  with  your  beer. 
This  day  is  the  sorrowfullest  day  of  my  life,  ever  since  my 
name  was  Betty  Morgan ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  129 

Them  vile  Savoyards!    they  lost  him  once  before  all  along 

of  following  a  monkey  and  an  organ  ; 
O  my  Billy — my  head  will  turn  right  round — if  he's  got  kid- 

dynapped  with  them  Italians, 
They'll  make  him  a  plaster  parish  image  boy,  they  will,  the 

outlandish  tatterdemalions. 
Billy — where  are  you,  Billy?—  I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow,  with 

screaming  for  ye,  you  young  sorrow ! 
And  sha'n't  have  half  a  voice,  no  more  I  sha'n't,  for  crying 

fresh  herrings  to-morrow. 

0  Billy,  you're  bursting  my  heart  in  tw^o,  and  my  life  won't 

be  of  no  more  vally, 
If  I'm  to  see  other  folks'  darlin's,  and  none  of  mine,  playing 

like  angels  in  our  alley  ! 
And  what  shall  I  do  but  cry  out  my  eyes,  when  I  looks  at 

the  old  three-legged  chair 
As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of,  and  there  ain't 

no  Billy  there ! 

1  would   run  all  the  wide  world  over  to  find  him,  if  I  only 

knowed  where  to  run  ; 

Little  Murphy,  now  I  remember,  was  once  lost  for  a  month 
through  stealing  a  ])enny  bun, — 

The  Lord  forbid  of  any  child  of  mine !  I  think  it  would  kill 
me  rally 

To  find  my  Bill  holdin'  up  his  little  innocent  hand  at  the 
Old  Bailey. 

For  though  I  say  it  as  oughtn't,  yet  I  will  say,  you  may  search 
for  miles  and  mileses 

And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  and  more  pretty  be- 
haved, from  one  eud  to  t'other  of  .St.  Giles's. 

And  if  I  called  him  a  beauty,  it's  no  lie,  but  only  as  a  moth- 
er ought  to  speak ; 

You  never  set  eyes  on  a  more  handsomer  face,  only  it  hasn't 
been  washed  for  a  week ; 

As  for  hair,  though  it's  red,  it's  the  most  nicest  hair  when 
I've  time  to  just  show  it  tlu;  comb; 

I'll  owe  'em  five  pounds,  and  a  hkissing  besides,  as  will  only 
bring  him  safe  and  sound  home. 

He's  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  called  a  squint,  though  a  littlo 
cast  he's  certainly  got; 

And  his  nose  is  still  a  good  un,  though  the  bridge  is  broke, 
by  his  falling  on  a  ])ewter  jiiut  pot ; 

He's  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the  world,  and  very 
large  teeth  for  his  age; 

And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdockson's  child  to  play  Cupid  on 
the  Drury  Lane  Stage. 

And  then  lu;  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways — but  oh,  I  nev- 
er, never  shall  set;  him  no  more! 

Oh  dear!  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing  him  back 
from  death's  door ! 

9 

62* 


130  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Only  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls,  hang  'cm.  waa 

at  twenty  a  penny, 
And  the  threepence   he'd  got  by  grottoing  was  S])ent  in 

plums,  and  sixty  for  a  child  is  too  many. 
And  the   Cholera  man  came  and  whitewashed  us  all,  and, 

drat  him,  made  a  seize  of  our  hog. 
It's  no   use  to  send  the  crier  to  cry  him  about,  he's  such  a 

blunderin'  drunken  old  dog; 
The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  tind  a  lost  child,  he  was  guz- 
zling with  his  bell  at  the  Crown, 
And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for  a  distracted 

mother  and  father  about  town. 
Billy — where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say?  come,  Billy,  come  home 

to  your  best  of  mothers ! 
I'm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  cabroleys,  they  drive  so, 

they'd  run  over  their  own  sisters  and  brothers. 
Or  may  be  he's  stole  by  some  chimbly  sweeping  wretch,  to 

stick  fast  in  narrow  flues  and  what  not. 
And  be  poked'up  behind  with  a  picked  pointed  pole,  when 

the  soot  has  ketched,  and  the  chimbly's  red  hot. 
Oh,  I'd  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world  was  mine, 

to  clap  my  two  longin'  eyes  on  his  fece, 
For  he's   my  darlin'  of  darlin's,  and  if  he  don't  soon  come 

back,  you'll  see  me  drop  stone  dead  on  the  place. 
I  only  wish   I'd  got  him  safe  in  these  two  motherly  arms, 

and  wouldn't  I  hug  him  and  kiss  him  ! 
Lawk !    I   never  knew  what  a  precious  he  was, — but  a  child 

don't  not  feel  like  a  child  till  you  miss  him. 
Why  there   he  is !    Punch   and  Judy  hunting,  the  young 

wretch,  it's  that  Billy  as  sartin  as  sin ! 
But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of  his  hair,  and 

I'm  blest  if  he  shall  have  a  whole  bone  in  his  skin  I 


ACROSS  THE  EIVER.— Lucy  Larcom, 

When  for  me  the  silent  oar 

Parts  the  Silent  River, 
And  I  stand  upon  the  shore 

Of  the  strange  Forever, 
Shall  I  miss  the  loved  and  known? 
Shall  I  vainly  seek  mine  own  ? 

Mid  the  crowd  that  come  to  meet 

Spirits  sin-forgiven, — 
Listening  to  their  echoing  feet 

Down  the  streets  of  heaven, — 
Shall  I  know  a  footstep  near 
That  I  listen,  wait  for,  here  ? 


NIMBER    EIGHT.  '   13^ 

Then  will  one  approach  the  brink, 

With  a  hand  extended? — 
One  -whose  thoughts  I  loved  to  think 

Ere  the  veil  was  rended, 
Saying,  "  Welcome !  we  have  died, 
And  again  are  side  by  side." 

Saying,  "  I  will  go  with  thee, 

That  thou  be  not  lonely^ 
To  yon  hills  of  mystery ; 

I  have  waited  only 
Until  now  to  clinilj  with  thee 
Yonder  hills  of  mystery." 

Can  the  bonds  that  make  us  here 

Know  ourselves  immortal, 
Drop  awa}^,  the  foliage  sear, 

At  life's  inner  portal? 
What  is  holiest  below 
Must  forever  live  and  grow. 

I  shall  love  the  angels  well. 

After  1  have  found  them, 
In  the  mansions  where  they  dwell, 

With  the  glory  round  them; 
But  at  first,  without  surprise, 
Let  me  look  for  human  eyes. 

Step  by  step  our  feet  must  go 

Up  the  holy  mountain  ; 
Drop  by  drojj  within  us  flow 

Life's  unfailing  fountain. 
Angels  sing  with  crowns  that  burn; 
Shall  we  have  a  song  to  learn  ? 

He  who  on  our  earthly  path 

Bids  us  help  each  other, — 
Who  his  Well-beloved  hath 

]\Lide  our  Elder  Brother, — 
Will  but  clasp  the  chain  of  love 
Closer,  when  we  meet  above. 

Therefiire  dread  I  not  to  go 

O'er  the  .Silent  liiver; 
Death,  thy  hastening  oar  I  know: 

B(!ar  me,  thou  life-giver, 
Through  the  waters,  to  tlie  shore 
Where  mine  own  have  gone  before. 


132  ONE   HUI^DRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE —Alice  Caky. 

0  frood  painter,  tell  me  true,  ^ 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw? 

Ay  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields,  a  little  brown,— 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 

Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 
Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn. 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 

And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom. 

When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathmg-room 
Under  their  tassels,— cattle  near, 

Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass. 

And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 

With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,— 

(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound!) 
These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 

Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 

With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 

All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,— 

Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 

And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 

Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen  closer.    When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 

A  Iddy,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me ; 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 

I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words : 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say,— 
She  is  my  mother :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  jmint,  sir;  one  like  me, 
The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  133 

And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 

Flasliing  with  boldest  enterprise  : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now; 

He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  *'  Commodore," — 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 

Ah,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Bince  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck : 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown. 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee : 
That  beauteous  heaa,  if  it  did  go  down, 

Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

We  were  together,  half  afraid 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretcliing  so  still  and  far,-^ 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  tlie  candle  shone  through  the  open  door. 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble,  and  ready  to  drop. 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star. 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes. 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry  tree, 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  Hax-field  grew,— =^ 
Dead  at  the  top, — ^.just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day. 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir ;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  tliin-shelled  eggs; 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  cat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keej)  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 
You  can  i)aint  tlic  !(jok  of  a  lie? 
If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 
To  i)ut  it  soU^ly  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  like.->t  me; 


134  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

I  tliink  'twas  solely  mine,  indeed : 

But  that's  no  matter, — paint  it  so  ; 
The  eyes  of  our  mother — (take  good  heed) — 
Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs. 
Nor  the  tiuttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  tlirough  our  faces  down  to  our  lies. 
And  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise ! 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  wliere  that  glance  went,  as  though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know 
That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet, — 
Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry  tree, — 
The  mother, — the  lads,  with  their  bird,  at  her  knee: 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe ! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I'll  shout. 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


MR.  PERKINS  BUYS  A  DOG.— James  M.  Bailey. 

It  is  a  little  singular,  as  fond  as  I  am  of  dogs,  that  I  never 
enjoyed  an  undisputed  title  to  one  until  the  other  day.  I 
have  frequently,  to  be  sure,  had  a  dog  in  my  possession  when 
I  was  a  boy,  but  the  possession  w^as  acquired  by  persuasive- 
ness, and  was  but  temporary,  as  my  parent  on  my  father's 
side  entertained  morbid  prejudice  against  dogs,  and  never 
missed  an  opportunity  to  show  his  aversion. 

The  dog  I  refer  to  as  being  strictly  my  own,  was  one  ] 
bought  of  a  man  named  Robbins,  who  lives  some  distance 
down  town.  I  gave  him  two  dollars  for  the  dog,  on  his  own 
representations.  He  said  it  was  a  good  animal,  but  had  a 
little  more  of  life  and  energy  than  were  proper  in  a  dog 
where  there  were  hens  on  the  premises.  I  don't  keep  hens, 
so  this  was  no  objection  in  my  case. 

In  the  evening,  I  went  down  to  his  place  after  my  pur- 
chase. It  was  a  tall  dog,  with  a  long  body,  long  legs,  a  long 
neck,  and  a  very  short  tail.  The  color  was  a  dirty  yellow. 
His  body  was  lank  as  well  as  long,  which  gave  the  impres- 
sion that  he  had  missed  meals  when  he  did  not  design  to.  I 
was  a  iittle  disappointed  in  his  general  appearance,  but  there 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  l'{5 

was  a  good  frame,  and  time,  with  plenty  of  "wholesome  food, 
would  undoubtedly  complete  a  gratifying  metamorphosis. 

Robbins  gave  me  a  good  suj^ply  of  rope,  with  which  I 
made  mj'  animal  fast,  and  started  for  home.  We  jogged  a- 
long  very  nicely  together.  Occasionally  I  paused  to  pat  him 
affectionately,  adding  some  remark  of  a  confidential  nature. 
In  this  way  we  progressed  until  we  reached  the  business  part 
of  the  town.  I  don't  know  how  to  account  for  it,  but  he 
suddenly  stopped,  in  a  dogged  manner,  and  commenced  to 
rear  back  and  cut  up  variously.  Perhaps  the  glare  of  the 
lights  confused  his  mind, — perhaps  he  may  have  got  the  im- 
pression I  was  a  butcher,  or  something  of  that  sort.  AYhat- 
ever  it  may  have  been,  he  was  certainly  acting  in  a  strange 
manner.  He  pulled  back  with  wonderful  vigor,  bracing  his 
feet,  and  vibrating  his  head  swiftly.  The  skin  lopped  over 
his  eyes,  while  the  joints  in  my  body  seemed  to  turn  com- 
pletely around  in  their  sockets. 

He  pulled  back  like  this,  until  I  thought  his  entire  hide 
would  slip  over  his  head,  then  he  abruptly  came  forward, 
and  I  struck  the  pavement  on  my  back  with  a  velocity  that 
threatened  to  destroy  my  further  usefulness  in  this  world. 

He  did  this  three  or  four  times  within  the  distance  of  a 
block,  and  finally  I  suggested  if  he  did  it  again  I  should  feel 
tempted  to  kick  in  some  of  his  ribs  as  an  experiment. 

At  this  time  three  boys  gave  an  unexpected  variety  to  the 
performance  by  getting  in  the  animal's  rear,  and  enlivening 
him  with  a  pointed  stick. 

He  very  soon  got  the  impression  that  the  boys  were  not 
actuated  by  friendly  designs,  and  he  came  up  nearer  to  me — 
and,  eventually,  went  past. 

It  may  be  well  to  remark  just  here  that,  when  he  went 
past,  he  carried  a  portion  of  my  pantaloon  leg  with  him, — 
a  circumstance  many  would  not  mention,  perhaps,  but  it 
struck  me  as  being  a  very  singular  proceeding,  especially  as 
my  leg  was  next  to,  and  in  close  proximity  with  the  cloth. 

lie  went  ahead  so  fast  that  it  was  nearly  impossible  to  re- 
strain him,  and  went  the  entire  length  of  the  rope,  before  I 
succeeded  in  checking  him.  As  there  were  quite  a  number 
of  people  on  the  street  at  the  time,  it  natmally  increased  my 
interest  in  his  movements. 


136  ONE    nUNDRKD    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  rope  Vv^as  a  bed  cord ;  it  was  full  forty  feet  long ;  the 
dog  was  about  four  feet, — in  all  forty-four  feet.  It  was  a 
pretty  long  line  of  communication  to  keep  up  on  a  crowded 
thoroughfare,  especially  with  a  mad  and  hungry  dog  on  the 
/oose  end  of  it.  He  was  straining  with  all  his  might,  and 
drawing  me  along  at  a  rapid  but  not  graceful  gait.  When  I 
occasionally  got  my  eyes  down  to  a  level  with  the  walk,  it 
was  to  discover  him  crawling  out  from  under  somebody,  with 
various  results.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  very  heavy 
people,  they  did  not  get  fairly  on  their  feet  until  I  got 
abreast  of  them.  These  people  invariably  called  my  atten- 
tion to  the  subject,  and  would  have  got  my  fairest  views  on 
it,  had  it  been  possible  to  have  held  up  long  enough  to  oxjen 
my  mouth. 

I  endured  these  things  pleasantly  enough ;  but  when  a 
man  and  woman  both  came  down  together,  and  the  rope 
got  mysteriously  twisted  about  three  other  people,  and  see- 
sawed them  in  a  wonderfully  fearful  manner,  I  lost  all  desire 
to  own  a  dog,  antl  let  go  of  my  end  of  the  rope. 

It  immediately  transpired  that  no  one  was  needed  there. 
The  people  who  were  seesawing  across  the  walk,  and  shout- 
ing for  their  friends,  were  so  inconceivably  entangled  in  the 
rope,  that  they  held  the  dog  as  firmly  as  a  piece  of  meat 
could  have  done.  The  old  gentleman  and  lady  were  full  as 
mysteriously  mixed,  both  screaming  vigorously, — although 
it  is  but  fair  to  state  that  the  former  appeared  to  take  the 
liveliest  interest  in  the  matter,  as  he  was  next  to  the  dog, 
and  in  a  very  exposed  condition,  I  regret  to  add. 

It  at  once  resolved  itself  into  such  an  exclusively  private 
affair,  that  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  do  anything  which 
would  look  like  interfering,  and  so  I  sat  down  on  a  box,  and 
rubbed  my  leg,  and  looked  on  to  see  what  the  party  would 
eventually  do. 

As  it  is  reasonable  to  expect,  a  crowd  gathered,  and  that 
dog  was  stepped  on  and  walked  over  a  number  of  times,  but 
I  can  honestly  affirm  I  do  not  recollect  seeing  any  one  step 
on  him  the  second  time.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  confu- 
sion, of  course,  and  the  two  elderly  people  were  four  or  five 
minutes,  getting  up  and  down,  before  they  fairly  reached 
their  feet.      And  when  the  old  gentleman  did  get  up,  good 


NUMBEK    EIGHT.  137 

nnd  square,  I  was  surprised  and  shocked  to  observe  another 
gentleman,  who  was,  I  presume,  the  husband  of  the  old  lady, 
fetch  him  a  clip  between  the  eyes,  that  sent  him  on  his  back 
with  great  speed.  Of  course  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
the  dog  and  the  rope,  but  he  ought  not  to  liave  been  so 
hasty.  This  is  what  the  people  thought,  undoubtedly,  for 
they  yelled  their  disapprobation,  and  crowded  up  closer, 
while  that  wretched  dog  came  back  to  see  what  was  now  re- 
vtraining  him,  but  not  being  able  to  distinguish  the  present 
source  of  trouble,  he  split  the  difference  and  the  calf  of  a 
new  party's  leg,  and  took  off  a  good  share  of  the  tail  to  the 
irate  husband's  coat. 

The  vivacity  of  that  animal  is  the  most  remarkable  thing 
of  this  season.  He  didn't  waste  any  time  on  superfluous 
ceremonies,  but  rapidly  notified  all  within  reach,  of  his  in- 
tentions, and  when  he  did  get  loose,  and  left,  I  didn't  see 
anybody  follow  him. 

I  guess  they  pretty  much  shared  my  opinion  of  the  ani- 
mal :  that  the  less  they  had  to  do  with  him  the  more  there 
would  be  of  them  for  other  purposes. 

From  "Life  in  Danbury." 


NO  MORTGAGE  OX  THE  FARM.— Joiix  H.  Yates. 

Mary,  let's  kill  the  fatted  calf,  and  celebrate  this  day, 

For  the  last  dreadful  mortgage  on  the  farm  is  wiped  away ; 

I  have  got  the  papers  with  me,  they  are  right  as  right  can 

be — 
Let  us  laugh  and  sing  together,  for  the  dear  old  farm  is  free. 

Don't  all  we  Yankees  celebrate  the  Fourth  day  of  July  ? 
Because  'twas  then  that  freedom's  sim  lit  up  our  nation's 

sky; 
Why  shouldn't  we  then  celebrate,  and  this  day  ne'er  forget? 
Where  is  there  any  freedom  like  being  out  of  debt? 

I've  riz  up  many  mornin's  an  lionr  before  the  sun, 
And  night  has  overtaken  nic  before  tlie  task  was  done; 
When  wci'.ry  with  my  labor  'twas  this  thought  that  nerved 

my  arm  : 
Each  day  of  toil  will  licip  to  pay  the  morigage  on  the  farm.. 


133  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

And,  Mary,  you  have  done  your  part  in  rowin'  to  the  shore. 
By  takin'  eggs  and  butter  to  the  little  village  store ; 
You  did  not  spend  the  money  in  dressin'  up  for  show, 
But  sang  from  morn  till  evening  in  your  faded  calico. 

And  Bessie,  our  sweet  daughter— God  bless  her  loving  heart! 
The  lad  that  gets  her  for  a'wife  must  be  by  nater  smart,— 
She's  gone  without  piano  her  lonely  hours  to  charm. 
To  have  a  hand  in  payin'  oflt'  the  mortgage  on  the  farm. 

I'll  build  a  little  cottage,  soon,  to  make  your  heart  rejoice ; 
I'll  buy  a  good  piano  to  go  with  Bessie's  voice  ; 
You  shall  not  make  your  butter  with  that  up  and  down  con- 
cern, 
For  I'll  go  this  very  day  and  buy  the  finest  patent  churn. 

Lay  by  your  faded  calico,  and  go  with  me  to  town, 
And  get  yourself  and  Bessie  a  new  and  shining  gown  ; 
Low  prices  for  our  produce  need  not  give  us  now  alarm  ; 
Spruce  up  a  little,  Mary,  there's  no  mortgage  on  the  farm ! 

While  our  hearts  are  now  so  joyful,  let  us,  Mary,  not  forget 

To  thank  the  God  of  heaven  for  being  out  of  debt ;  _ 

For  he  gave  the  rain  and  sunshine,  and  put  strength  into  my 

arm. 
And  lengthened  out  the  days  to  see  no  mortgage  on  the  farm. 


OUR  WHOLE  COUNTRY. 

Who  would  sever  freedom's  shrine? 
Who  would  draw  the  invidious  line? 
Though  l)y  birth  one  spot  be  mine, 
Dear  is  all  the  rest : 

Dear  to  me  the  South's  fair  land. 
Dear  the  central  mountain  band. 
Dear  New  England's  rocky  strand, 
Dear  the  prairied  West. 

By  our  altars,  pure  and  free ; 
By  our  laws'  deep-rooted  tree ; 
By  the  past's  dread  memory ; 
By  our  WasJdnglon  ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  139 

By  our  common  parent  tongue  ; 
By  our  hopes,  bright,  buoyant,  young; 
By  the  tie  of  country  strong, — 
We  will  still  be  one. 

Fathers !  have  ye  bled  in  vain  ? 
Ages!   must  ye  droop  again? 
Maker !  shall  we  rashly  stain 
Blessings  sent  by  thee  ? 

Nn! — receive  our  solemn  vow. 
While  before  thy  shrine  we  bow, 
Ever  to  maintain,  as  now, 
Union — Libekty  ! 


SPEECH  OF  VINDICATION.— Robert  Emmet. 

My  Lords:  What  have  I  to  say  why  sentence  of  death 
phonld  not  be  pronounced  on  me,  according  to  law? — I  have 
nothing  to  say  that  can  alteryour  predetermination,  nor  that 
it  Mill  become  me  to  say,  with  any  view  to  the  mitigation 
of  that  sentence  which  you  are  here  to  pronounce,  and  I 
must  abide  by.  But  I  have  that  to  say,  which  interests  me 
more  than  life,  and  which  you  have  labored  to  destroy.  1 
have  much  to  say,  why  my  reputation  should  be  rescued  from 
the  load  of  false  accusation  and  calumny  which  has  been 
heajied  upon  it. 

Were  I  only  to  suffer  death,  after  being  adjudged  guilty  by 
your  tribunal,  I  should  bow  in  silence,  and  meet  the  fate 
that  awaits  me  without  a  murmur;  but  the  sentence  of  law 
whii-h  delivers  my  body  to  the  executioner  will,  through  the 
ministry  of  that  law,  labor,  in  its  own  vindication,  to  consign 
my  character  to  obloquy :  for  there  must  be  guilt  somewhere, 
— whether  in  tlio  sentence  of  the  court,  or  in  the  catastrophe, 
posterity  must  determine.  The  man  dies,  but  his  memory 
lives.  That  mine  may  not  perish, — that  it  may  live  in  the 
respect  of  my  countrymen, — I  seize  upon  thisopporttmity  to 
vindicate  mj'self  from  some  of  the  charges  alleged  against 
me.      When   my  spirit  shall  be  wafted  to  a  more  friendly 


140  ONE    liUNDKEU    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

port ;  when  my  shade  shall  have  joined  the  bands  of  those 
martyred  heroes  who  have  shed  their  blood,  on  the  seufibld 
and  in  the  field,  in  defence  of  their  eonntry  and  virtue  ;  thia 
is  my  hope, — I  wish  that  my  memory  and  name  may  animate 
those  who  survive  me,  while  1  look  down  with  comi)lacency 
on  the  destruction  of  that  perfidious  government  which  up' 
holds  its  domination  by  blasphemy  of  the  Most  High,  which 
disj^lays  its  j^ower  over  man  as  over  the  beasts  of  the  forest, 
which  sets  man  upon  his  brother,  and  lifts  his  hand,  in  the 
name  of  God,  against  the  throat  of  his  fellow,  who  believes 
or  doubts  a  little  more  or  less  than  the  government  standard, 
— a  government  which  is  steeled  to  barbarity  by  the  cries 
of  the  orphans  and  the  tears  of  the  widows  which  its  cruelty 
has  made. 

I  swear,  by  the  throne  of  heaven,  before  which  I  must 
shortly  appear, — by  the  blood  of  the  murdered  patriots  who 
have  gone  before  me, — that  my  conduct  has  been,  through 
all  this  peril,  and  all  my  purposes,  governed  only  by  the  con- 
victions which  I  have  uttered,  and  no  other  view  than  that 
of  the  emancipation  of  my  country  from  the  superinhuman 
oppression  under  which  she  has  so  long,  and  too  patiently, 
travailed ;  and  that  I  confidently  and  assuredly  hope,  (wild 
and  chimerical  as  it  may  appear,)  that  there  is  still  union  and 
strength  in  Ireland  to  accomplish  this  noble  enterprise. 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead,  to  charge  me  with  dis' 
honor ;  let  no  man  attaint  my  memory  by  believing  that  1 
could  have  engaged  in  any  cause  but  that  of  my  country's 
liberty  and  independence  ;  or  that  I  could  have  become  the 
pliant  minion  of  power,  in  the  opjtression  or  the  miseries 
of  my  countrymen.  I  would  not  have  submitted  to  a  foreign 
oppressor,  for  the  same  reason  that  I  would  resist  the  do- 
mestic tyrant ;  in  the  dignity  of  freedom,  I  would  have  fought 
upon  the  threshold  of  my  country,  and  her  enemies  should 
enter  only  by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corpse.  Am  I,  who 
lived  but  for  my  country,  and  who  have  subjected  myself  to 
the  vengeance  of  the  jealous  and  wrathful  oppressor,  and  to 
the  bondage  of  the  grave,  only  to  give  my  countrymen  their 
rights, — am  I  to  be  loaded  with  calumny,  and  not  to  be  suf- 
fered to  resent  or  repel  it  ?    No  I—  God  forbid ! 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in  the  cou* 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  141 

cerns  and  cares  of  those  who  are  dear  to  them  in  this  tran- 
sitory life,— O  ever  dear  and  venerated  shade  of  my  departed 
father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  on  the  conduct  of  your  suf- 
fering son  ;  and  see  if  I  have  even  for  a  moment  deviated 
from  those  principles  of  morality  and  patriotism  which  it  was 
your  care  to  instil  into  my  youthful  mind,  and  for  an  adher- 
ence to  which  I  am  now  to  offer  up  my  life  ! 

My  lords,  you  are  all  impatient  for  the  sacrifice.  The  blood 
which  you  seek  is  not  congealed  by  the  artificial  terrors 
which  surround  your  victim ;  it  circulates  warmly  and  un- 
ruffled, through  the  channels  which  God  created  for  noble 
purposes,  but  which  you  are  bent  to  destroy,  for  purposes  so 
grievous  that  they  cry  to  heaven !  Be  yet  patient !  I  have 
but  a  few  words  more  to  say.  I  am  going  to  my  silent  grave ; 
my  lamp  of  life  is  nearly  extinguished  ;  my  race  is  run  ;  the 
grave  opens  to  receive  nie,  and  I  sink  into  its  bosom.  I  have 
but  one  request  to  ask  at  my  departure  from  this  world,— it 
is  the  charity  of  its  silence.  Let  no  man  write  my  epitaph  ; 
for,  as  no  one  v/ho  knows  my  motives  dare  now  vindicate 
them,  let  not  prejudice  or  ignorance  asperse  them.  Let  them 
and  me  repose  in  obscurity  and  peace,  and  my  tomb  remain 
uninscribed,  until  other  times,  and  other  men,  can  do  justice 
to  my  character.  When  my  country  shall  take  her  place 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  then,  and  not  till  then,  let 
my  epitaph  be  wiitten !    I  have  done. 


THE  FIRST  PARTING.— Marian  Douglass. 

"  Yes,  I  am  off  to-morrow  morn ! 

Next  week  I  sail  fnr  Indy! 
And  you'll  be  glad  when  1  am  gone, — 

tSay,  shan't  you  be,  Lucindy?" 

A  summer  llowcr  herself,  the;  maid 

Stood  mid  tiic  sweet  syriiigas, 
A  June  pink  in  her  hair's  smooth  braid, 

A  rotsebud  in  her  lingers, 
2i:b 


142  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Plucked  from  the  tall  bush  in  the  yard, 

Whose  white  liowers  waved  above  her; 
And  parting  never  seemed  so  hard 

As  just  then,  to  her  lover. 

Her  lip  began  to  grieve ;  the  red 

Upon  her  cheek  grew  paler ; 
"  It  seems  a  strange  choice,  Tom,"  she  said, 

"  For  you  to  be  a  sailor ; 

"And  when  the  wild,  black  clouds  I  see, 

And  when  the  nights  are  windy, 
I — "    "  Bless  your  soul !   you'll  pray  for  me ; 

I  know  you  will,  Lucindy ! " 

The  rosebud  from  her  hand  he  took ; 

"  This  flower,"  he  said,  "  I'll  save  it. 
And  keep  it  pressed  within  a  book, 

Remembering  who  gave  it. 

"  I  never  cared,  as  women  do, 

For  garden  beds  and  posies. 
But  somehow — why,  I  never  knew — 

I  always  loved  white  roses. 

"  They  seem  just  made  for  weddin's ;  when 

I  come  again  from  Indy, 
My  bride,  you'll  wear  white  roses  then ; 

Come,  won't  you? — say,  Lucindy!" 

A  sudden  flame  upon  her  cheek, 

Her  eyes  the  quick  tears  filling, 
The  answer  gave  she  would  not  speak. 

Lest  she  might  seem  too  willing.  j 

For,  "  Tom,"  she  asked,  "  how  can  it  be? 

Here,  all  my  life,  you've  known  me ; 
No  word  of  love  you've  said  to  me. 

No  sign  you've  ever  shown  me." 

And  he  said,  "  True,  but  though  I  hain't, 

My  love,  I've  washed  j-ou  knew  it. 
And  tried  to  speak,  and  felt  too  faint 

At  heart  to  dare  to  do  it ; 

"  But  when  my  mind  was  fixed  to  go 

A  sailor,  out  to  Indy, 
I  said, '  I'll  have  a  Yes  or  No  ; ' 

Oh,  say  it's  Yes,  Lucindy ! " 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  143 

"  Yes,  Tom,  it's  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  when 

I  learned  that  you  were  going, 
I  found  you  had  my  heart ;  till  then, 

'Twas  yours  without  my  knowing ! " 

Soft  on  her  cheek  fell,  wet  with  dew, 

A  rose-leaf  from  above  her ; 
A  warmer  touch  her  red  lips  knew, — 

The  tirst  kiss  of  her  lover ! 

Though  stilled  the  song  and  hushed  the  laugh, 

And  hot  the  tears  are  starting. 
What  joy  that  life  can  give  is  half 

So  sweet  as  love's  first  parting  ? 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


JEPHTHAH'S   RASH  VOW.— Miss  Howard. 

From  the  11th  chapter  of  Judges. 

The  battle  had  ceased  and  the  victory  was  won, 

The  wild  cry  of  horror  was  o'er ; 
Now  arose  in  his  glory  the  bright  beaming  sun. 
And  with  him  his  journey  the  war-chief  begun, 

With  a  soul  breathing  vengeance  no  more. 

The  foes  of  his  country  lay  strewed  on  the  plain, 

A  tear  stole  its  cour.se  from  his  eye ; 
The  warrior  disdained  every  semblance  of  pain ; 
He  thought  of  his  child — of  his  country,  again, 

And  suppressed,  while  'twas  forming,  a  sigh. 

"  O  Father  of  light ! "  said  the  conquering  chief, 

"  The  vow  that  I  made,  I  renew ; 
Twas  thy  powerful  arm  gave  tlie  welcome  relief, 
Wlien  I  called  on  thy  name  in  the  fulness  of  grief, 

When  my  hopes  were  but  cheerless  and  few. 

"  An  offering  of  love  will  I  pay  to  thy  name, — 

An  oH'criug  thou  wilt  not  despise : 
Till'  lirst  Ix'ing  I  moot,  wlicn  I  welcome  again 
Till!  laud  of  my  fathers  1  Uift  not  in  vain, 

With  the  flames  on  thine  altar  shall  ri.se." 

Now  hi'.shfd  wore  his  words:  throuL'h  the  far-spreading banda 
Naugiii  was  heard,  .save  the  footfall  around, 


]44  ONE    HUNDEED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

Till  his  lips  in  wild  joy  press  his  own  native  lands, 
And  to  heaven  are  lifted  his  trembling  hands, 
While  the  silence  is  still  and  profound. 

Oh,  listen !  at  distance  what  wild  music  sounds? 

And  at  distance  what  maiden  appears? 
See !  forward  she  comes  with  a  light-springinfj;  bound, 
And  casts  her  mild  eyes  in  fond  ecstasy  rooad, 

For  a  parent  is  seen  through  her  tears. 

Her  harp's  wildest  strain  gave  a  thrill  of  delight, 

A  moment — she  springs  to  his  arms : 
"  My  daughter !— O  God !  "   Not  the  horror  of  fight, 
While  legions  on  legions  against  him  unite, 

Could  bring  on  his  soul  such  alarms. 

In  wild  horror  he  starts  as  a  fiend  had  appeared ; 

His  eyes  in  mute  agony  close ; 
His  sword  o'er  his  age-frosted  visage  is  reared, 
Which  with  scars  from  his  many  fought  battles  is  searea 

Nor  his  country  nor  daughter  he  knows. 

Eat  sudden  conviction  in  quick  flashes  told 

That  his  daughter  was  destined  to  die  ! 
Oh !  no  longer  could  nature  the  wild  struggle  hold  ; 
His  grief  issued  forth  unconstrained,  uncontrolled. 

And  the  tears  dimmed  his  time-withered  eye. 

His  daughter  was  weeping,  and  clasping  that  form 

She  ne'er  touched,  but  with  transport,  before ; 
His  daughter  was  watching  the  thundering  storm. 
Whose  quick  flashing  lightnings  so  madly  deform 
A  face  beaming  sunshine  before. 

• 

But  how  did  that  daughter,  so  gentle  and  fair, 
Hear  the  sentence  that  doomed  her  to  die  ? 
For  a  moment  her  eye  gave  a  heart-moving  glare, 
Almost  like  a  maniac's,  so  fixed  in  its  stare ; 
For  a  moment  her  bosom  heaved  high. 

It  was  but  a  moment, — the  frenzj^  was  past. 

She  smilingly  rushed  to  his  arms ; 
And  there,  as  a  flower,  when  chilled  by  the  blast, 
Reclines  on  the  oak,  till  its  fiiry  be  past, 

On  his  bosom  she  hushed  her  alarms. 

Not  an  eye  saw  the  scene  but  was  moistened  with  woe, 

Not  a  voice  could  a  sentence  command ; 
Down  the  soldier's  rough  cheek  tears  of  agony  flow. 
While  the  sobs  of  the  maiden  heaved  mournful  and  slow: 

Sad  pity  wept  over  the  land. 


NUMBER     EIGHT.  145 

But  fleil  was  the  hope  in  the  maiden's  sad  breast ; 

From  her  fond  fatlier's  bosom  she  rose  ; 
Mild  virtue  appeared  in  her  manner  confest, 
She  looked  like  a  saint  from  the  realms  of  the  blest, 

Not  a  mortal  encircled  with  woes. 

Slie  turned  from  the  group — and  can  I  declare 

The  hope  and  the  fortitude  given  ? 
As  she  sank  on  her  knees,  witli  a  soul-breathing  prayer, 
That  her  father  might  flourish,  of  virtue  the  care, 

Till  with  giory  he'd  flourish  in  heaven. 

"  Oh !  comfort  him.  Heaven,  when  low  in  the  dust 

My  limbs  are  inactively  laid ; 
Oh !  comfort  him.  Heaven,  and  let  him  then  trust 
Thai,  free  and  immortal,  the  souls  of  the  just 

Are  in  glory  and  beauty  arrayed." 

The  maiden  arose — and  can  I  portray 

The  devotion  that  glowed  in  her  eye  ? 
Religion's  sweet  self  in  its  light  seemed  to  stray 
With  the  mildness  of  night,  with  the  glory  of  day. 

But  'twas  pity  that  prompted  her  sigli. 

"  My  father ! "  the  chief  raised  his  dim,  weeping  eye, 

With  a  look  of  unspeakable  woe : 
"  My  father!  "  her  voice  seemed  convulsed  with  a  sigh, 
But  the  tears,  as  they  gushed  from  her  grief-swollen  eye, 
""    Told  more  than  her  words  could  bestow. 

The  weakness  was  past,  and  the  maiden  could  say, 

"  My  father !  for  thee  I  can  die ! " 
The  bands  slowly  moved  on  their  sorrowful  way. 
But  never  again  from  that  heart-breaking  day 
Was  a  tear  known  to  force  its  enlivening  ray 

On  the  old  chieftain's  grief-speaking  eye. 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS.— John  Pierpont. 

Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  1 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  merely  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it, — ye  who  will. 


146  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  lionies  retire? 
Look  behind  you, — they're  afire ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !    From  the  vale 
On  they  come! — and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 
Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must : 
But  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriots  bed. 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell  ? 


THRILLING  SKETCH.— Salathiel. 

A  portal  of  the  arena  opened,  and  the  combatant,  with  a 
mantle  thrown  over  his  foce  and  figure,  was  led  into  the  sur' 
roundery.  The  lion  roared  and  ramped  against  the  bars  of 
his  den  at  the  sight.  The  guard  put  a  sword  and  buckler 
into  the  hands  of  the  Christian,  and  he  was  left  alone.  He 
drew  the  mantle  from  his  face,  and  bent  a  slow  and  firm 
look  around  the  amphitheatre.  His  fine  countenance  and 
lofty  bearing  raised  a  universal  shout  of  admiration.  He 
might  have  stood  for  an  Apollo  encountering  the  Python. 
His  eye  at  last  turned  on  mine.  Could  I  believe  my  senses  ? 
Constantius  was  before  me. 

All  my  rancor  vanished.  An  hour  past,  I  could  have  struck 
the  betrayer  to  the  heart, — I  could  have  called  on  the  se- 
verest vengeance  of  man  and  heaven  to  smite  the  destroyer 
of  my  child.  But  to  see  him  hopelessly  doomed,  the  man 
whom  I  had  honored  for  his  noble  qualities,  whom  I  had 
even  loved,  whose  crime  was,  at  the  worst,  but  the  crime  of 
giving  way  to  the  strongest  temptation  that  can  bewilder  the 
heart  of  man ;  to  see  the  noble  creature  flung  to  the  savage 
beast,  dying  in  tortures,  torn  piecemeal  before  my  eyes,  and 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  X47 

his  misery  wrought  by  me,  I  would  have  obtested  earth  and 
heaven  to  save  ]iim.  But  my  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of 
my  mouth.  My  limbs  refused  to  stir.  I  would  have  thrown 
myself  at  the  feet  of  Nero ;  but  I  sat  like  a  man  of  stone — • 
pale — paralyzed — the  beating  of  my  pulse  stopped — my  eyes 
alone  alive. 

The  gate  of  the  den  was  thrown  back,  and  the  lion  rushed 
in  with  a  roar  and  a  bound  that  bore  him  half  across  the 
arena.  I  saw  the  sword  glitter  in  the  air :  when  it  waved 
again,  it  was  covered  with  blood.  A  howl  told  that  the  blow 
had  been  driven  home.  The  lion,  one  of  the  largest  from 
Xumidia,  and  made  furious  by  thirst  and  hunger,  an  animal 
of  prodigious  power,  crouched  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  make 
sure  of  his  prey,  crept  a  few  paces  onward,  and  sprang  at  the 
victim's  throat.  He  was  met  by  a  second  wound,  but  his  im- 
pulse was  irresistible.  A  cry  of  natural  horror  rang  round 
the  amphitheatre.  The  struggle  was  now  for  an  instant,  life 
or  death.  They  rolled  over  each  other ;  the  lion,  reared 
upon  his  hind  feet,  with  gnashing  teeth  and  distended  tal- 
ons, plunged  on  the  man  ;  again  they  rose  together.  Anxi- 
ety was  now  at  its  wildest  height.  The  sword  now  swung 
round  the  champion's  head  in  bloody  circles.  They  fell 
again,  covered  with  blood  and  dust.  The  hand  of  Constan- 
tius  had  grasped  the  lion's  mane,  and  the  furious  bounds  of 
the  monster  could  not  loose  his  hold ;  but  his  strength  was 
evidently  giving  way, — he  still  struck  his  terrible  blows,  but 
each  was  weaker  than  the  one  before  ;  till,  collecting  his 
whole  force  for  a  last  effort,  he  darted  one  mighty  blow  into 
the  lion's  throat,  and  sank.  The  savage  beast  yelled,  and, 
spouting  out  blood,  fled  howling  around  the  arena.  But  the 
hand  still  grasped  the  mane,  and  the  conqueror  was  dragged 
whirling  through  the  dust  at  his  heels.  A  universal  outcry 
now  arose  to  save  him,  if  he  tvere  not  already  dead.  But 
the  lion,  though  bleeding  from  every  vein,  was  still  too  ter- 
rible, and  all  shrank  from  the  hazard.  At  last  the  grasp 
gave  way,  and  the  Ijody  lay  motionless  on  the  ground. 

What  happened  for  some  moments  after,  I. know  not. 
There  was  a  struggle  at  the  portal ;  a  female  forced  her  way 
through  the  guards,  ruslied  in  alone,  and  flinig  herself  upon 
the  victim.      The  siglit  of  a  new  prey  roused  tlie  lion  ;    ho 


148  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

tore  the  ground  with  his  talons ;  he  lashed  his  streaming 
sides  with  his  tail ;  he  lifted  up  his  mane  and  bared  his  fangs ; 
But  his  approaching  was  no  longer  with  a  bound ;  he  dread- 
ed the  sword,  and  came  snuffing  the  blood  on  the  sand,  and 
stealing  round  the  body  in  circuits  still  diminishing. 

The  confusion  in  the  vast  assemblage  was  now  extreme. 
Voices  innumerable  called  for  aid.  Women  screamed  and  • 
fainted,  men  burst  into  indignant  clamors  at  this  prolonged 
cruelty.  Even  the  hard  hearts  of  the  populace,  accustomed 
as  they  were  to  the  sacrifice  of  life,  were  lOused  to  honest 
curses.  The  guards  grasped  their  arms,  and  waited  but  for 
a  sign  from  the  emperor.     But  Nero  gave  no  sign. 

I  looked  upon  the  woman's  face ;  it  was  Salome !  I  sprang 
upon  my  feet.  I  called  on  her  name, — called  on  her,  by  every 
feeling  of  nature,  to  fly  from  that  place  of  death,  to  come  to 
my  arms,  to  think  of  the  agonies  of  all  that  loved  her. 

She  had  raised  the  head  of  Constantius  on  her  knee,  and 
was  wiping  the  pale  visage  with  her  hair.  At  the  sound  of 
my  voice,  she  looked  up,  and,  calmly  casting  back  the  locks 
from  her  forehead,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me.  She  still  knelt ; 
one  hand  supported  the  head, — with  the  other  she  pointed 
to  it  as  her  only  answer.  I  again  adjured  her.  There  was 
the  silence  of  death  among  the  thousands  around  me.  A 
fire  dashed  into  her  eye, — her  cheek  burned, — she  waved  her 
hand  with  an  air  of  superb  sorrow. 

"  I  am  come  to  die,"  she  uttered,  in  a  lofty  tone.  "  This 
bleeding  body  was  my  husband,— I  have  no  father.  The 
world  contains  to  me  but  this  clay  in  my  arms.  Yet,"  and 
she  kissed  the  ashy  lips  before  her,  "  yet,  my  Constantius,  it 
was  to  save  that  father  that  your  generous  heart  defied  the 
peril  of  this  hour.  It  was  to  redeem  him  from  the  hand  of 
evil  that  you  abandoned  your  quiet  home ! — Yes,  cruel  fath- 
er, here  lies  the  noble  being  that  threw  open  your  dungeon, 
that  led  you  safe  through  the  conflagration,  that,  to  the  last 
moment  of  his  liberty,  only  sought  how  he  might  preserve 
and  protect  you."  Tears  at  length  fell  in  floods  from  her 
eyes.  "  But,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  wild  power,  "  he  was  be- 
trayed, and  may  the  Power  whose  thunders  avenge  the  cause 
of  his  people,  pour  down  just  retribution  upon  the  head  that 
dared  " — 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  149 

T  heard  my  own  condemnation  about  to  be  pronounced  by 
the  Ups  of  my  own  child.  Wound  up  to  the  last  degree  of 
suflering,  I  tore  my  hair,  leaped  upon  the  bars  before  me, 
and  plunged  into  the  arena  by  her  side.  The  height  stunned 
me ;  I  tottered  a  few  paces  and  fell.  Tlie  lion  gave  a  roar 
and  sprang  upon  me.  I  lay  helpless  under  him,  I  heard  the 
gnashing  of  his  Avhite  fangs  above  me. 

An  exulting  shout  arose.  I  saw  him  reel  as  if  struck, — 
gore  filled  his  jaws.  Another  mighty  blow  was  driven  to  his 
heart.  He  sprang  high  in  the  air  with  a  howl.  He  dropped ; 
he  was  dead.  The  amphitheatre  thundered  with  acclama- 
tions. 

With  Salome  clinging  to  my  bosom,  Constantius  raised  me 
from  the  ground.  The  roar  of  the  lion  had  roused  him  from 
his  swoon,  and  two  blows  saved  me.  The  falchion  had  bro- 
ken in  the  heart  of  the  monster.  The  whole  multitude 
stood  up,  supplicating  for  our  lives  in  the  name  of  filial  piety 
and  heroism.  Nero,  devil  as  he  was,  dared  not  resist  the 
strength  of  popular  feeling.  He  waved  a  signal  to  the  guards ; 
the  portal  was  opened,  and  my  children,  sustaining  my  feeble 
steps,  show&red  with  garlands  and  ornaments  from  innumer- 
able hands,  slowly  led  me  from  the  arena. 


LOFTY  FAITH. 


I  stood  upon  the  ocean's  briny  shore, 
And  with  a  fragile  reed  I  wrote 
Upon- the  sand — 

"  Agnes,  I  love  thee ! " 
The  mad  waves  rolled  by  and  blotted  out 
The  fair  impression. 

Frail  reed !    Cruel  wave !    Treacherous  sand ! 
I'll  trust  ye  no  more; 
r>iit  with  giant  hand  I'll  pluck 
From  Norwav's  frozen  shore 
Her  tallest  pine,  and  dij)  its  top 
Into  the  crater  of  Vesuvius, 
AihI  upon  the  high  and  burnished  heavens 
I'll  write— 

"  Agnes,  I  love  thee!" — 
And  I  would  like  to  see  any 
Dog-goned  wave  wash  that  out. 
2ke* 


150  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


OUT  IN  THE  SOBBING  RAIN.— Dora  Shaw. 


I  loved  him  long,  and  I  loved  him  well, 
Now  with  hate  I  burn  like  a  fiend  of  hell, 
And  curse  the  day  in  his  arms  I  fell. 

Not  dreaming  then  of  pain ; — 
Not  dreaming  then  what  the  year  would  bring, 
For  my  soul  was  white  as  an  angel's  wing ; 
Now  here  I  am  wandering,  a  lone,  lost  thing, 

Out  in  the  sobbing  rain ! 

I  was  no  city  maid,  with  eyes 

Burned  black  with  jjassion,  looking  lies; 

No,  mine  were  blue  as  the  bluest  skies, 

And  told,  ah  !  wondrous  plain. 
The  innocent  thoughts  I  would  gathering  hold 
Like  spotless  lambs  to  my  bosom-fold, 
But  the  shepherd  slept,  and  the  thief  grew  bold, — 

Aye,  sob,  thou  sobbing  rain  I 

Aye,  the  thief  grew  bold :  now  my  peace  is  gonel 
Like  a  God-cursed  thing,  I  keep  wandering  on, 
Nor  heed  the  bleak  storm,  as  it  breaks  upon' 

My  weary,  weary  brain, — 
I  but  clasp  my  hands  o'er  an  aching  breast. 
And  shriek  out  a  prayer  for  the  grave  and  rest. 
But  the  winds  laugh  aloud  down  the  darkening  west 

At  the  sobs  of  the  sobbing  rain. 

Oh,  alas  for  my  home  on  the  distant  moor ! 
Alas!  the  dear  eyes  that  watch  by  the  door, 
Watch  for  a  pale  form  they  will  never  see  more, — 

Heart,  cease,  oh,  cease  thy  pain ! 
Alas  for  the  flowers  that  bloom  on  the  heath. 
Which  the  frost,  like  alover,  kisses  to  death ! 
Would  I  were  a  flower,  to  fall  'neath  his  breath, 

In  the  sobs  of  the  sobbing  rain ! 

To-night  I  passed  by  his  castle  old, — 

The  one  he  bought  when  his  heart  he  sold  ; 

In  his  arms  his  young  bride  I  saw  him  fold. 

Near  by  the  window-pane  ; 
Her  pale  face  drooped  'neath  his  glowing  eye, 
Like  a  northern  flower  'neath  a  tropic  sky, — 
A  withering  bud,  'neath  his  blasting  sigh, — 

Aye,  sob,  thou  sobbing  rain ! 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  151 

Her  white  arms  vrere  veiled  with  laces  rare, 
AVhile  mine  are  thin,  and  blue,  and  bare 
To  the  o'er-keen  knife  of  the  midnight  air ; 

My  fingers  ache  with  pain, 
Whilst  hers  with  jewels  are  e'en  weighed  down, — 
Jewels  to  flash  in  an  empress'  crown, — 
While  of  hunger  I  die,  in  tears  1  drown, 

Here  in  the  sobbing  rain. 

Aye,  his  bride  is  she,  and  what  then  am  I, 

That  the  world,  with  its  scorn,  should  pass  me  by, — 

With  its  mocking  lip  and  jeering  eye? 

I  loved,  alas,  in  vain ! 
And  yet,  though  no  sainth^  prayer  was  said, 
No  bride's  veil  hid  my  love-bowed  head, 
A  God  looked  down,  and  we  were  wed, — 

Aye,  sob,  thou  sobbing  rain ! 

See  the  lightning  flash  in  yonder  sky, 
Like  a  bold,  bad  thought  in  a  villain's  eye; 
AVhat  a  night  for  death !  oh,  that  I  could  die. 

And  so  end  all  this  pain  ! 
My  feet  are  so  weary,  my  feet  are  so  sore, 
AVouhi  they  bear  me,  I  wonder,  as  far  as  the  moor? 
AVould  they  take  me  in,  who  watch  by  the  door, — 

In  from  this  sobbing  rain  ? 

What  darkness  is  this  which  veileth  mine  eyes  ? 

Oh  !  'tis  my  tears,  or  the  mists  of  the  skies, — 
But  then  my  heart,  and  my  breath,  how  it  flies ! 

And  yet  I  feel  no  jjain. 
There !  strange  lights  are  gleaming  from  yon  open  door, 
But  'tis  not  the  one  on  the  distant  moor. 
And  strange  voices  call  me — I  ne'er  heard  before.— 

Out  of  the  sobbing  rain. 


NOT  LOST. 

The  look  of  R3rmpathy,  the  gentle  word. 
Spoken  so  low  that  only  angels  heard; 
The  secret  art  of  pure  self-sacrifice. 
Unseen  by  men,  but  marked  by  angels'  eyes; 
These  are  not  lost. 

The  sacred  music  of  a  tender  strain. 
Wrung  from  a  [)oet's  heart  l)y  grii'f  and  pain, 
And  clianted  timidly,  with  doubt  and  fear. 
To  busy  cnnvds  who  scarcely  pause  to  hear; 
It  is  not  lost. 


152  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

The  silent  tears  that  fall  at  dead  of  night, 
Over  soiled  robes  which  once  were  pure  and  white 
The  prayers  that  rise  like  incense  from  the  soul, 
Longing  for  Christ  to  make  it  clean  and  whole ; 
These  are  not  lost. 

The  happy  dreams  that  gladdened  all  our  youth, 
When  dreams  had  less  of  self  and  more  of  truth ; 
The  childlike  faith,  so  tranquil  and  so  sweet, 
Which  sat  like  Mary  at  the  Master's  feet ; 
These  are  not  lost. 

The  kindly  plans  devised  for  others'  good, 
So  seldom  guessed,  so  little  understood ; 
The  quiet,  steadfast  love  that  strove  to  win 
Some  wanderer  from  the  woeful  ways  of  sin ; 
These  are  not  lost. 

Not  lost,  O  Lord,  for  in  thy  city  bright, 
Our  eyes  shall  see  the  past  by  clearer  light ! 
And  things  long  hidden  from  our  gaze  below. 
Thou  wilt  reveal,  and  we  siiall  surely  know 
They  were  not  lost. 


THE  HERITAGE.— James  Russell  Lowelu 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick  and  stone  and  gold; 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands. 
And  tender  tlesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares: 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn  ; 

Some  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares ; 
And  soft,  Ai'hite  hands  would  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  suit  his  turn  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants : 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare  ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair ; 


NUMBER    KIGHT.  ICsl 


A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart ; 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King'of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things; 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit ; 

Content  that  from  employment  springs ; 

A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
A  patience  learned  by  being  poor ; 

Courage,  if  sorrow  comes,  to  bear  it ; 
A  fellow  feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door : 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son !  there  is  a  toil 
That  wath  all  other  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

B-ut  only  whitens,  soft,  white  hands; 
That  is  the  best  crop  from  the  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state ! 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 

Work  (jnly  makes  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  liold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  foot  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 

Botii  children  of  the  same  dear  God; 
Prove  title  to  yourlieirship  vast, 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Well  Worth  a  life  to  iioid  in  fee. 

«3« 


154  OKE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


MARK  TWAIN  TELLS  AN  ANECDOTE  OF  A.  WARD. 

As  Artemus  was  once  traveling  in  the  cars,  dreading  to  be 
bored,  and  feeling  miserable,  a  man  approached  him,  sat 
down,  and  said, — 

"  Did  you  hear  that  last  thing  on  Horace  Greeley?  " 

"Greeley?  Greeley?"  said  Artemus,  "Horace  Greeley? 
Who  is  he  ?  " 

The  man  was  quiet  about  five  minutes.  Pretty  soon  he 
said, — 

"  George  Francis  Train  is  kicking  up  a  good  deal  of  a  row 
over  England,  Do  you  think  they  will  put  him  in  a  bas- 
tile?" 

"  Train  ?  Train  ?  George  Francis  Train  ?  "  said  Artemus, 
solemnly,  "  I  never  heard  of  him." 

This  ignorance  kept  the  man  quiet  about  fifteen  minutes, 
then  he  said, — 

"  What  do  you  think  about  General  Grant's  chances  for 
the  Presidency  ?    Do  you  think  they  will  run  him  ?  " 

"Grant?  Grant?  hang  it,  man,"  said  Artemus,  " you  ap- 
pear to  know  more  strangers  than  any  maia  I  ever  saw." 

The  man  was  furious.  He  walked  ofi",  but  at  last  came 
back  and  said, — 

"  You  confounded  ignoramus,  did  you  ever  hear  of  Adam  ?  " 

Artemus  looked  up  and  said, — 

"  What  was  his  other  name  ?  " 


THE  DYING  STREET  ARAB.— Matthias  Barr. 

I  knows  M'hat  you  mean,  I'm  a  dyin' ; 

Well,  I  ain't  no  worse  nor  the  rest ; 
'Taint  them  as  does  nothin'  but  prayin', 

I  reckon,  is  alius  the  best. 

I  ain't  had  no  father  nor  mother 

A-tellin'  me  wrong  from  the  right; 
The  streets  ain't  the  place, — is  it,  parson? — 

For  sayin'  your  prayers  of  a  night. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  155 

I  never  knowed  who  was  mr  father, 

And  mother,  she  died  long  ago ; 
The  folks  here,  they  brought  me  up  somehow, 

It  ain't  much  they  have  teached  me,  I  know. 

Yet  I  think  they'll  be  sorry,  and  miss  me, 

When  took  right  away  from  this  here, 
¥or  sometimes  I  catches  them  slyly 

A-wipin'  away  of  a  tear. 

And  they  says  as  they  hopes  I'll  get  better; 

I  can't  be  no  worse  when  I'm  dead ; 
I  ain't  had  so  jolly  a  time  on't, — 

A-dyin'  by  inches  for  bread. 

I've  stood  in  them  streets  precious  often, 

When  the  wet's  been  a-pourin'  down. 
And  I  ain't  had  so  much  as  a  mouthful. 

Nor  never  so  much  as  a  brown. 

I've  looked  in  them  shops,  with  the  winders 

Chokeful  of  what's  tidy  to  eat. 
And  I've  heerd  gents  a-lartiu'  and  talkin'. 

While  I  drops  like  a  dorg  at  their  feet. 

But  it's  kind  on  you,  sir,  to  sit  by  me ; 

I  ain't  now  afeerd  o'  your  face  ; 
And  I  hopes,  if  it's  true  as  you  tells  me, 

We'll  meet  in  that  t'other  place. 

I  hopes  as  you'll  come  when  it's  over, 

And  talk  to  them  here  in  the  court; 
They'll  mind  what  you  says,  you're  a  parson, 

There  won't  be  no  larkin'  nor  sport. 

You'll  tell  them  as  how  I  died  happy. 

And  hopin'  to  see  them  again  ; 
That  I'm  gone  to  that  land  where  the  weary 

Is  freed  of  his  trouble  and  pain. 

Now  open  that  book  as  you  give  me, — 

I  feels  a-s  it  never  tells  lies,^ 
And  read  me  tliem  words— you  know,  guv'nor, — 

As  is  good  for  a  chap  when  he  dies. 

There,  give  me  your  hand,  sir,  and  thankee 
For  the  good  as  you've  done  a  poor  lad  ; 

Who  knows,  had  thisy  teaclicd  mc  some  better, 
I  mightn't  have  growed  up  so  bad. 


£56  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS 

NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES. 

He  found  thereon  nothing  but  leaves.— Matt,  xi.,  19. 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  the  spirit  grieves 

Over  a  wasted  life  ; 
Sins  committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 

Hatred,  battle,  and  strife — 
Nothing  but  leaves ! 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  no  garnered  sheaves 
Of  life's  fair,  ripened  grain  ; 

Words,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds ; 

We  sow  our  seed,— lo !  tares  and  weeds  ; 
We  reap  with  toil  and  pain 
Nothing  but  leaves. 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  memory  weaves 

No  veil  to  screen  the  past : 
As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 
Counting  each  lost  and  misspent  day, 

We  find,  sadly,  at  last, 
Nothing  but  leaves. 

And  vshall  we  meet  the  Master  so, 
Bearing  our  withered  leaves? 

The  Saviour  looks  for  perfect  fruit ; 

We  stand  before  him,  humbled,  mute. 
Waiting  the  word  he  breathes,— 
Nothing  but  leaves. 


THE  MAN  OF  EXPEDIENTS.— S.  Oilman. 

The  man  of  expedients  is  he  who,  never  providing  for  the 
little  mishaps  and  stitch-droppings  with  which  this  mortal 
life  is  pestered,  and  too  indolent  or  too  ignorant  to  repair 
them  in  the  proper  way,  passes  his  days  in  inventing  a  suc- 
cession of  devices,  pretexts,  substitutes,  plans,  and  commuta- 
tions, by  the  help  of  which  he  thinks  he  appears  as  well  as 
other  people.      Look  through  the  various  professions  and 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  157 

characters  of  life.      You  will  there  see  men  of  expedients 
darting,  and  shifting,  and  glancing,  like  fishes  in  the  stream. 

If  a  merchant,  the  man  of  expedients  borrows  incontin- 
ently, at  two  per  cent,  a  month ;  if  a  sailor,  he  stows  his 
hold  with  jury-masts,  rather  than  ascertain  if  his  ship  be  sea- 
worthy ;  if  a  visitor  where  he  dislikes,  he  is  called  out  before 
the  evening  has  half  expired ;  if  a  musician,  he  scrapes  on 
a  fiddle-string  of  silk ;  if  an  actor,  he  takes  his  stand  within 
three  feet  of  the  prompter ;  if  a  poet,  he  makes  "  fault " 
rhyme  with  "  ought,"  and  "  look  "  with  "  spoke  ; "  if  a  review 
er,  he  fills  up  three  quarters  of  his  article  with  extracts  from 
the  writer  whom  he  abuses ;  if  a  di\ane,  he  leaves  ample 
room  in  every  sermon  for  an  exchange  of  texts ;  if  a  physic- 
ian, he  is  often  seen  galloping  at  full  speed,  nobody  knows 
where ;  if  a  debtor,  he  has  a  marvelous  acquaintance  with 
short  corners  and  dark  alleys ;  if  a  collegian,  he  commits  Eu- 
clid and  Locke  to  memory  without  understanding  them, 
interlines  his  Greek,  and  writes  themes  equal  to  the  Ram- 
bler. 

But  it  is  in  the  character  of  a  general  scholar  that  the  man 
of  expedients  most  shines.  He  ranges  through  all  the  arts 
and  sciences — in  cj'clopa^dias ;  he  acquires  a  most  thorough 
knowledge  of  classical  literature — from  translations ;  he  is 
very  extensively  read — in  title-pages ;  he  obtains  an  exact 
acquaintance  with  authors — from  review's;  he  follows  all  lit- 
erature up  to  its  sources — in  tables  of  contents ;  his  re- 
searches are  indefatigable — into  indexes ;  he  quotes  by  mem- 
ory with  astonishing  facility — the  dictionary  of  quotations ; 
and  his  bibliographical  familiarity  is  miraculous — with  Dib- 
din. 

We  are  sorry  to  say  that  our  men  of  expedients  are  to  be 
sometimes  discovered  in  the  region  of  morality.  The  re  are 
those  who  claim  the  praise  of  a  good  action,  when  they  have 
acted  merely  from  convenience,  inclination,  or  compulsion. 
There  are  those  who  make  a  show  of  industry,  when  they 
are  set  in  motion  only  by  avarice.  There  are  those  who  are 
quiet  and  j)eaceable,  only  because  they  are  sluggish.  Tlu>re 
are  those  wlio  are  sagely  sih^iit,  because  they  have  not  one 
idea  ;  abstemious,  from  repletion  ;  patriots,  because  thev  are 
ambitious ;  perfect,  because  there  is  no  temptation. 


158  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 


THAT  LINE  FENCE. 

Old  Farmer  Smith  came  home  in  a  miff 

From  his  field  the  other  day, 
While  his  sweet  little  wife,  the  pride  of  his  life, 

At  her  wheel  was  spinning  away. 

And  ever  anon  a  gay  little  song 

With  the  buzz  of  her  wheel  kept  time ; 

And  his  wrathful  brow  is  clearing  now, 
Under  her  cheerful  rhyme. 

"  Come,  come,  little  Turk,  put  away  your  work, 

And  listen  to  what  I  say : 
What  can  I  do,  but  a  quarrel  brew 

With  the  man  across  the  way  ? 

"  I  have  built  my  fence,  but  he  won't  commence 

To  lav  a  single  Vail ; 
His  cattle  get  in,  and  the  feed  gets  thin,— 

I  am  tempted  to  make  a  sale ! " 

"  Whv,  John,  dear  John,  how  you  do  go  on ! 

I'm'  afraid  it  will  be  as  they  say."' 
"  No,  no,  little  wife,  I  have  heard  that  strife 

In  a  lawyer's  hands  don't  pay. 

"  He  is  picking  a  flaw,  to  drive  me  to  law,— 
I  am  told  that  he  said  he  would,— 

And  you  know,  long  ago,  law  wronged  me  so, 
I  vowed  that  I  never  should. 


"  So  what  can  I  do,  that  I  will  not  rue, 

To  the  man  across  the  way  ?  " 
"  If  that's  what  you  want,  I  can  help  you  hauni 

That  man  with  a  spectre  gray. 

"  Thirty  dollars  will  do  to  carry  you  through, 
And  then  you  have  gained  a  neighbor ; 

It  would  cost  you  more  to  peep  in  the  door 
Of  a  court,  and  as  much  more  labor. 

"  Just  use  your  good  sense— let's  build  him  a  fence, 
And  shame  bad  acts  out  of  the  fellow." 

They  built  up  his  part,  and  sent  to  his  heart 
Love's  dart,  where  the  good  thoughts  mellow. 

That  very  same  night,  by  the  candle  light. 

They  opened  with  interest  a  letter : 
Not  a  word  was  there,  but  three  greenbacks  fair 

Said— the  man  was  growing  better. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  159 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLEiSTHEIM— Robert  Southey. 

The  battle  of  Blenheim  in  Bavaria  was  fought  August  13,  1704,  between  the 
troops  of  the  English  and  Austrians  on  one  sido,  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
and  Prince  Eugene,  and  the  French  and  Bavarians  on  the  otlier  side,  led  liy  Mar- 
shal Tallart  and  the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  Tlie  latter  party  was  defeated,  and  the 
scliemes  of  Louis  XIV.  of  yrance  were  materially  checked  thereby. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh, — 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  hereabout ; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 

**  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries; 
And  little  Williolmine  looks  up 

With  wondc^r-waiting  eyes, — 
"  N(nv  tell  us  all  aVjout  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"  Wlio  i)ut  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  tliey  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out; 
But  everybody  said,"  (luotli  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  fiimous  victory. 


160  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  there, 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won,— 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"  AVhy,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing ! " 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?** 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he ; 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE.— Charles  Wolfe. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  forewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  161 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonelj^  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  ti-ead  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

AVhen  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  tiring. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ;  - 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 


THE  TRUE  SOURCE  OF  REFORM.— Edw-n  H.  Chapin. 

The  great  element  of  reform  is  not  born  of  human  wisdom, 
it  does  not  draw  its  life  from  human  organizations.  I  find 
it  only  in  Cukihtianity.  "  Thy  kingdom  come!"  There  is 
a  sublime  and  pregnant  burden  in  this  prayer.  It  is  the  as- 
piration of  every  soul  that  goes  forth  in  the  spirit  of  Reform. 
For  what  is  the  significance  of  this  jiraycr?  It  is  a  {X'tition 
that  all  lioly  influences  would  penetrate  and  subdue  an<l  dwell 
ill  the  heart  of  man,  until  he  shall  think,  and  speak,  and  do 
good,  from  the  very  necessitv  of  his  being.  So  would  th*" 
11 


162  OXE    HUXDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIOXS 

institutions  of  error  and  wrong  crumble  and  pass  away.  So 
would  sin  die  out  from  the  earth ;  and  the  human  soul  living 
in  harmony  with  the  Di\nue  will,  this  earth  would  become 
like  heaven.  It  is  too  late  for  the  reformers  to  sneer  at 
Christianity, — it  is  foolishness  for  them  to  reject  it.  In  it 
are  enshrined  our  faith  in  human  progress, — our  confidence 
in  reform.  It  is  indissolubly  connected  with  all  that  is  hope- 
ful, spiritual,  capable,  in  man.  That  men  have  misunder- 
stood it,  and  perverted  it,  is  true.  But  it  is  also  true  that 
the  noblest  efforts  for  human  melioration  have  come  out  of 
it, — have  been  based  upon  it.  Is  it  not  so?  Come,  ye  re- 
membered ones,  who  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just, — who  took 
your  conduct  from  the  line  of  Chiistian  philosophy, — come 
from  your  tombs,  and  answer ! 

Come,  Howard,  from  the  gloom  of  the  prison  and  the  taint 
of  the  lazar-house,  and  show  us  what  philanthropy  can  do 
when  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  Jesus.  Come,  EUot,  from 
the  thick  forest  where  the  red  man  listens  to  the  Word  of 
Life  ; — come,  Penn,  from  thy  sweet  counsel  and  weaponless 
victory,  and  show  us  what  Christian  zeal  and  Christian  love 
can  accomplish  with  the  rudest  barbarians  or  the  fiercest 
hearts.  Come,  Raikes,  from  thy  labors  with  the  ignorant 
and  the-  poor,  and  show  us  with  what  an  eye  this  faith  re- 
gards the  lowest  and  least  of  our  race ;  and  how  diligently  it 
labors,  not  for  the  body,  not  for  the  rank,  but  for  the  plastic 
soul  that  is  to  course  the  ages  of  immortality.  And  ye,  who 
are  a  great  number, — ye  nameless  ones,  who  have  done  good 
in  your  narrow  spheres?,  content  to  forego  renown  on  earth, 
and  seeking  your  reward  in  the  record  on  high, — come  and 
tell  us  how  kindly  a  spirit,  how  lofty  a  purpose,  or  how 
strong  a  courage  the  religion  ye  professed  can  breathe  into 
the  poor,  the  humble,  and  the  weak.  Go  forth,  then,  Spirit 
of  Christianity,  to  thy  great  work  of  Reform  !  The  past 
bears  witness  to  thee  in  the  blood  of  thy  martjTS,  and  the 
ashes  of  thy  saints  .and  heroes;  the  present  is  hopeful  be- 
cause of  thee ;  the  future  shall  acknowledge  thy  omnipot- 
ence. 


NUMBER    EIGHT,!  163 


SINGING  FOR  THE  MILLION— Thomas  Hood. 

Amono:?t  the  great  inventions  of  this  age, 

Whirh  every  other  century  surpasses, 
Is  one,  just  now  the  rage, 

Called  "  singing  for  all  classes," 
That  is,  for  all  the  British  millions, 
And  billions. 
And  quadrillions, 
Not  to  name  Quintilians, — 
That  now,  alas !  have  no  more  ear  than  asses. 
To  learn  to  warble  like  the  birds  in  June,— 
In  time  and  tune, 
Correct  as  clocks,  and  musical  as  glasses ! 

In  fact,  a  sort  of  plan. 
Including  gentleman  as  well  as  yokel, 

Public  or  private  man, 
To  call  out  a  militia, — only  vocal 

Instead  of  local, 
And  not  designed  for  military  fcjllies, 
But  keeping  still  within  the  civil  border, 
To  form  with  mouths  in  open  order, 
■  And  sing  in  volleys. 

"WTaether  this  grand  harmonic  scheme 

Will  ever  get  beyond  a  dream, 
And  tend  to  British  happiness  and  glory, 

May  be  no,  and  may  be  yes, 

Is  more  than  I  pretend  to  guess ; 
However,  here's  my  story. 

In  one  of  those  small,  quiet  streets, 

Where  business  retreats, 
To  shun  the  daily  bustle  and  the  noise 

The  shoppy  Strand  enjoys, 
But  land,  joint  companies,  and  life  insurance, 

Find  past  endurance, — 
In  one  of  these  back  streets,  to  peace  so  dear, 
The  other  day  a  ragged  wight 
Began  to  sing  with  all  his  might, 
"  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here ! " 

Heard  in  that  quiet  place, 
Devoted  to  a  still  and  studious  race, 

The  noise  was  (Hiitc  a]>paliing; 
To  seek  a  lifting  simile,  and  spin  it, 

Aft[)roi)riale  to  his  calling. 
His  voice  had  all  Lablache's  body  in  it; 


164  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  oh !  the  scientific  tone  it  lacked, 
And  was  in  fact 
Only  a  forty-boatswain  power  of  bawling ! 

'Twas  said  indeed  for  want  of  vocal  7ious, 

The  stage  had  banished  him  when  he  'tempted  it, 
For  though  his  voice  completely  fiUeu'  the  house, 
It  also  emptied  it. 
However,  there  he  stood 
Vociferous — a  ragged  don ! 
And  with  his  iron  jjipes  laid  on, 
A  row  to  all  the  neighborhood. 

In  vain  were  sashes  closed. 

And  doors,  against  the  persevering  Stentor ; 
Though  brick  and  glass  and  solid  oak  opposed. 

The  intruding  voice  would  enter, 
Heedless  of  ceremonial  or  decorum, 
Den,  office,  parlor,  study,  and  sanctorum  ; 
Where  clients  and  attorneys,  rogues  and  fools, 
Ladies,  and  masters  who  attend  the  schools. 
Clerks,  agents  all  provided  with  their  tools. 
Were  sitting  upon  sofas,  chairs,  and  stools. 
With  shelves,  pianos,  tables,  desks,  before  'em, — 
How  it  did  bore  'em ! 

Louder  and  louder  still 
The  fellow  sang  with  horrible  good-will; 
Curses,  both  loud  and  deep,  his  sole  gratuities. 
From  scribes  bewildered,  making  many  a  flaw 

In  deeds  of  law 

They  had  to  draw ; 
With  dreadful  incongruities 
In  posting  ledgers,  making  up  accounts 

To  large  amounts, 
Or  casting  up  annuities, 
Stunned  by  that  voice  so  loud  and  hoarse. 
Against  whose  overwhelming  force 
No  invoice  stood  a  chance,  of  course. 

From  room  to  room,  from  floor  to  floor, 
From  Number  One  to  Twenty-four, 
The  nuisance  bellowed;  till,  all  patience  lost, 
Down  came  Miss  Frost, 
Expostulating  at  her  open  door: 

"  Peace,  monster,  peace ! 
Where  is  the  new  police  ? 
I  vow  I  cannot  work,  or  read,  or  pray, 
Don't  stand  there  bawling,  fellow,  don't! 


NUMBER    EianT.  105 

You  really  send  my  serious  thoughts  astray, 
Do— there's  a  dear,  good  man— do  go  away." 
Says  he, '"  I  won't !  " 

The  spinster  pulled  her  door  to  with  a  slam 

That  sounded  like  a  wooden  d n ; 

For  so  some  moral  people,  stric-tly  loth 

To  swear  in  words,  however  up. 

Will  crash  a  cur^e  in  setting  down  a  cup, 
Or  through  a  door-post  vent  a  banging  oath; 
In  fact,  this  sort  of  physical  transgression 

Is  really  no  more  difficult  to  trace, 
Thau  in  a  given  face 
A  veiy  bad  expression.  . 

However,  in  she  -went. 
Leaving  the  sul^ject  of  her  discontent 
To  Mr.  Jones's  clerk  at  Number  Ten, 
Who,  throwing  up  the  sash, 
With  accents  rash 
Thus  hailed  tlie  most  vociferous  of  men  : 
"Come,  come,  I  say,  old  fellow,  stop  your  chant; 
I  cannot  write  a  sentence— no  one  can't! 
So  pack  up  your  trumps. 
And  stir  your  stumps." 
Says  he,  "  I  shan't ! " 

Down  went  the  sash, 
As  if  devoted  to  "  eternal  smash," 
(Another  illustration 
Of  acted  imprecation,) 
While  close  at  hand,  uncomfortably  near. 
The  independent  voice,  so  loud  and  strong, 
And  clanging  like  a  gong. 
Roared  out  again  the  everlasting  song, 
"  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here  !  " 

The  thing  was  hard  to  stand, — 

The  music-master  could  not  stand  it. 
But  rushing  forth  with  tiddle-stick  in  hand. 

As  savage  as  a  bandit, 
Made  up  directly  to  the  tattered  man. 
And  thus  in  broken  sentences  l^egan  : — 
But  playing  lir.st  a  prelude  of  grimaces. 

Twisting  his  features  to  the  strangest  shapes, 
So  that,  to  guess  his  subject  from  his  faces, 
He  meant  to  give  a  lecture  upon  apes, — 
"  Com — com — I  say ! 
Y(ju  go  away ! 
Into  two  j)arts  my  head  you  split; 
]Vly  tiddle  cannot  hear  himself  a  bit, 

2kk 


166  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

When  I  do  play, — 
You  have  no  business  in  a  place  so  still  1 
Can  you  not  come  another  day?" 
Says  he,  "  I  will." 

"  No — no — you  scream  and  bawl ! 

You  must  not  come  at  all ! 
You  have  no  right,  by  rights,  to  beg,— 
You  have  not  one  off  leg ; 

You  ought  to  work,— you  have  not  some  complaint;- 
You  are  not  cripple  in  your  back  or  bones,— 
Your  voice  is  strong  enough  to  break  some  stones. 
Says  he,  "  It  ain't." 

"  I  say  you  ought  to  labor ! 
You  are  in  a  young  case, 
You  have  not  sixty  years  upon  your  face, 

To  come  and  beg  your  neighbor,  _ 
And  discompose  his  music  with  a  noise 
More  worse  than  twenty  boys ! 
Look  what  a  street  it  is  for  quiet,— 
No  cart  to  make  a  riot. 

No  coach,  no  horses,  no  postillion: 
If  you  xvill  sing,  I  say,  it  is  not  just 
To  sing  so  loud." 
Says  he,  "  I  must ! 
Fm  singing  for  the  million  !  " 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE.— Joaquin  Miller. 

Run  ?    Now  you  bet  you ;  I  rather  guess  so. 

But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  Pache,  boy,  whoa. 

No,  you  wouldn't  think  so  to  look  at  his  eyes, 

But  he  is  badger  bUnd,  and  it  happened  this  wise  :— 

We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 

Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride. 

"  Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 

AVhcn  once  they  strike  it.     Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 

As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back. 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso  ;  then  he  jerked  at  his  steed, 

And  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 

And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  to  the  ground,- 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  16? 

Then  again  to  .his  feet  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 

While  his  eyes  were  uke  fire,  his  face  hke  a  shroud, 

His  form  lilce  a  king,  and  his  beard  hke  a  cloud. 

And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed, — 

"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed. 

And  speed,  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed ; 

And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride, 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 

I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore; 

While  the  buffalo  come  like  the  surge  of  the  sea, 

Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 

As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein. 

Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them  over  again. 

And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheer, 

Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 

Cast  aside  the  catenas  red  and  spangled  with  gold. 

And  gold-mounted  Colt's,  true  companions  for  years, 

Cast  the  red  silk  scrapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath. 

And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to  the  horse, 

As  bare  as  w'hen  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 

Of  God,  without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 

Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 

Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 

Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course ; 

Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 

I^ike  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 

Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 

Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea, 

Rushing  fast  upon  us  as  the  wind  sweejjing  free 

And  afar  from  the  desert,  bearing  death  and  despair. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fiill. 

Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  or  low  call 

Of  love-note  or  courage,  but  on  o'er  the  plain 

So  steady  and  still,  leaning  l(#w  to  the  mane. 

With  the  heel  to  the  fiank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 

Kiide  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  gray  nose  and  nose, 

Itcaching  long,  breathing  loud,  like  a  creviced  wind  blows, 

Yet  we  broke  n(jt  a  whisi)er,  we  breathed  not  a  jjrayer, 

There  was  work  U)  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 

And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousaml  for  all. 

Clray  nose  to  gray  nose  and  each  steady  mustang 
iStretcheil  neck  and  stretched  nerv(!  till  the  hollow  earth  rang 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the  neck 
Fh'W  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 
Twenty  miles!  thirty  miles!— a  dim  distant  speck — 


168  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Then  a  long  reaching  line  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 

And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 

I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right, 

But  Revels  was  gone ;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 

And  saw  his  horse  stagger;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 

Hard  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 

Low  down  to  the  mane  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 

Rm  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 

To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 

In  miles  and  in  millions,  rolling  on  in  despair, 

With  their  beards  to  the  dust,  and  black  tails  in  the  air. 

As  a  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 

Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher, 

And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffivlo  bull. 

The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 

Of  sm')ke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 

Of  ])attle,  witli  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 

And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 

Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 

While  liis  keen  crooked  horns  through  the  storm  of  his  mane 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 

And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 

And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I  looked  to  my  left  then,  and  nose,  neck,  and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous  eyes 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair, 
And  a  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoka  fold  her. 
And  flames  reacliing  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  suljside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fell  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  that  my  own  steed  still  lorded  his  head 
With  a  look  of  delight,  for  this  Pache,  you  see, 
Was  her  father's,  and  once  at  ^le  South  Santafee 
Had  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything  down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown ; 
And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride, — 
My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 
And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe, — 
She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 
She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 
From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  north  Brazos  side; 
And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 
As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 
The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 
I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 
Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  north  Brazos  side, 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  1G9 

And  await  her, — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 
Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 
And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 
Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as  she  fell 
From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  tlie  ocean  of  tire, 
The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 
That  I  should  escaj^e, — a  love, — a  desire, — 
Yet  never  a  word,  not  a  look  of  aj^peal. 
Lest  I  should  reaeh  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Then  the  rushing  of  tire  rose  around  me  and  under, 

And  the  howling  of  beasts  like  the  sound  of  thunder, — 

Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over. 

As  the  passionate  tlame  reached  around  them  and  wove  her 

Hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died, — 

Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  de.solate  moan. 

As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone, 

And  into  the  Brazos  I  rode  all  alone, — 

All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed. 

And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 

Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 

And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide. 

Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 

In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 

Sell  Pache, — blind  Pache  ?    Now,  mister,  look  here, 

You  have  slept  in  my  tent  and  partook  of  my  cheer 

Many  days,  many  days,  on  this  rugged  frontier, 

For  the  ways  they  were  rough  and  Camanches  were  near; 

But  you'd  better  pack  up !     Curse  your  dirty  skin ! 

I  couldn't  liave  thought  you  so  niggardly  small. 

Do  you  men  that  make  boots  think  an  old  mountaineer 

On  the  rough  border  born  has  no  tum-tum  at  all  ? 

Sell  Pache  ?    You  buy  him !     A  bag  full  of  gold ! 

You  show  him !    Tell  of  him  the  tale  I  have  told ! 

Why  he  bore  me  through  fire,  and  is  blind,  and  is  old  I 

Now  pack  up  your  ])apers  and  get  up  and  spin. 

And  never  look  back !    Blast  you  and  your  tin  1 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.— Lord  Byron. 

Hushed  is  the  din  of  tongues;  on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  (Test,  gold  sjmr,  and  light-i)oised  lance. 
Four  cavaliers  prej)are  for  venturous  deeds, 
And  lowly  Ijcnding  to  the  lists  advance  ; 

64 


170  ONE     HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

■Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance ; 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  i:)rize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away, 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  arrayed, 
But  all  afoot,  the  light-limbed  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er, 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed ; 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed, — 
Alas !  too  oft  condemned  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion  ;  lo !  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns  with  sounding  foot 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe ; 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

Sudden  he  stops ;  his  eye  is  fixed  :  away. 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear ; 
Now  is  thy  time  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well  timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer ; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes: 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear; 
He  flies,  he  Avheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
Part  follows  dart ;  lance,  lance ;  loud  bellowings  speak  his 
woes. 

Again  he  comes ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail. 
Nor  the  wild  jilunging  of  the  tortured  horse ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretched  a  mangled  corse  ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !  unseamed  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source ; 
Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears ;    ^ 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharmed  he  bears. 

Foiled,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast. 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray ; 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  171 

And  now  the  Mutadores  around  liini  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak  and  poise  the  ready  brand; 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way — 
Vain  rage  !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — 'tis  past — he  sinks  upon  the  sand ! 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine. 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies; 
He  stops — he  starts — disdaining  to  decline ; 
Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries. 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle,  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears ;  on  high 
The  corse  is  piled — sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes — 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bu4k  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 


DEATH   OF  LITTLE  NELL.*— Charles  Dickens. 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  drawn  back  tov/ards 
the  inner  chamber,  while  these  words  were  spoken.  He 
pointed  there,  as  he  replied,  with  trembling  lips, — 

"  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her.  You 
will  never  do  that — never  while  I  have  life.  I  have  no 
relative  or  friend  but  her — I  never  had — I  never  will  have. 
She  is  all  in  all  to  me.    It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now." 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to  her 
as  he  went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  be- 
hind drew  close  together,  and  after  a  few  whispered  words, 
— not  unbroken  by  emotion,  or  easily  uttered, — followed  him. 
They  moved  so  gently,  that  their  footsteps  made  no  noise, 
but  there  were  sobs  from  among  the  group,  and  sounds  of 
grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay  at 
rest.    The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free 
from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  crea- 
ture fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath 
of  life ;  not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter 
berries  and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  a  spot  she  liad  been 
used  to  fiivor.       "When  I  die,  put  near  me  sometliiner  that 

*Sco  "  LitU«  Noll's  Funeral,"  No.  a,  p.  Ti.. 


172  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

has  loved  the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always."  Those 
were  her  words. 

iShe  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was  dead. 
Her  little  bird — a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger 
would  have  crushed — was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage  ;  and 
the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  motion- 
less forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings 
and  fatigues?  All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her, 
but  peace  and  perfect  hajipiness  were  born ;  imaged  in  her 
tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltefed  in  this  change. 
Yes.  The  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same  sweet 
face ;  it  had  passed  like  a  dream  through  haunts  of  misery 
and  care ;  at  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on  the  sum- 
mer evening,  before  the  furnace  fire  upon  the  cold,  wet  night, 
at  the  still  bedside  of  the  dying  boy,  there  had  been  the 
same  mild,  lovely  look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in 
their  majesty,  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the 
small  hand  tight  folded  to  his  breast,  for  warmth.  It  was 
the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last  smile — • 
the  hand  that  had  led  him  on  through  all  their  wanderings. 
Ever  and  anon  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  hugged  it  to  his 
breast  again,  murmuring  that  it  was  warmer  now ;  and  as  he 
said  it,  he  looked  in  agony  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if 
imploring  them  to  helji  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.  The  ancient 
rooms  she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her  own 
was  waning  fast, — the  garden  she  had  tended, — the  eyes  she 
had  gladdened — the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a  thoughtless 
hour — the  paths  she  had  trodden  as  it  were  but  yesterday- 
could  know  her  no  more. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss 
her  on  the  cheek,  and  give  his  tears  free  vent,  "  it  is  not  on 
earth  that  heaven's  justice  ends.  Think  what  it  is  compared 
with  the  world  to  which  her  young  spirit  has  winged  its  early 
flight,  and  say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed  in  solemn 
terms  above  this  bed  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us 
would  utter  it?" 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  173 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE.— John  G.  Wuittiee. 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  Time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rh3'nie, — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 

Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 

Feathered  and  rufHed  in  every  part. 

Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 

Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 

Strong  of  muscle  and  glib  of  tongue, 

Pushed  and  pulled  up  tlie  rocky  lane. 

Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 

"  Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips. 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase  ; 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare. 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Mfenads  sang : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Small  pity  for  him  !     He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Suilod  away  from  a  sinking  wreck. 
With  Ills  own  towns-people  on  her  deck! 
"  Lay  Ijy  I  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him ; 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  ! " 
And  off  he  sailed  througli  tlie  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  P']f)yd  Ireson,  for  bis  liard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feat liered  an<l  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

2ff* 


17-1  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,— 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be! 
What  did  the  winds  and  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?— 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  I 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side. 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head  and  fist  and  hat  and  cane. 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"  Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim. 
Like  an  Indian  idol,  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting  far  and  near : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  heart, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors !  "  at  last  he  cried,— 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,— I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead ! 
Said  old  Flovd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 

Said,  "  God  has  touched  him,— why  should  we? 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  175 

Said  an  old  wife,  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run ! " 
So  ^\'ith  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pit}',  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in. 
And  left  him  alone  wath  his  shame  and  sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart,  * 

Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  MarhleheadI 


THE  DRUMMER'S  BRIDE. 

Hollow-eyed  and  pale,  at  the  window  of  a  jail, 

Tlirough  her  soft,  disheveled  hair  a  maniac  did  stare,  stare, 

stare ! 
At  a  distance,  down  the  street,  making  music  with  their  feet. 
Came  the  soldiers  from  the  wars,  all  embelhshed  with  their 

scars, 
To  the  tapping  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum ; 
To  the  pounding  and  the  sounding  of  a  drum ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum ! 

The  woman  heaves  a  sigh,  and  a  fire  fills  her  eye. 

"When  she   hears  the  distant  drum,  she  cries,  "  Here  they 

come !   here  they  come ! " 
Then,  clutching  fast  the  grating,  with  eager,  nervous  waiting, 
See,  she  looks  into  the  air,  through  her  long  and  silky  hair, 
For  the  echo  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum ; 
For  the  cheering  and  the  hearing  of  a  drum ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum ! 

And  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  comes,  more  distinct  and  clearer, 
The  rattle  of  the  drumming :    shrieks  the  woman,  "  He  id 

coming. 
He  is  coming  now  to  me  :  quick,  drummer,  quick,  till  I  see! '' 
And  her  eye  is  glassy  bright,  while  she  beats  in  mad  delight 
To  the  echo  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum  ; 
To  the  rapping,  tapping,  tapping,  of  a  drum ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum ! 

Now  she  sees  them,  in  the  street,  march  along  with  dusty 

feet. 
As  she  looks  through  the  spaces,  gazing  madly  in  their  faces ; 
And  she  reaches  out  her  hand,  screaming  wildly  to  the  band ; 


176  ONE    HUNDRED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

But  her  words,  like  her  lover,  are  lost  beyond  recover, 

'Mid  the  beating  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum  ; 

'Mid  the  clanging  and  the  banging  of  a  drum ! 

Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum ! 

So  the  pageant  passes  by,  and  the  woman's  flashing  eye 
Quickly  loses  all  its  stare,  and  fills  with  a  tear,  with  a  tear, 
A-s,  sinking  from  her  place,  with  her  hands  upon  her  face, 
"  Hear ! "  she  weeps  and  sobs  as  mild  as  a  disappointed  child ; 
Sobbing,  "  He  will  never  come,  never  come ! " 
Now  nor  ever,  never,  never,  will  he  come 
With  his  drum,  with  his  drum,  with  his  drum !  drum,  drum, 
drum ! 

Still  the  drummer,  up  the  street,  beats  his  distant,  dying  beat. 
And  she  shouts,  within  her  cell,"  Ha !  they're  marching  down 

to  hell, 
A-nd  the  devils  dance  and  wait  at  the  open  iron  gate : 
Hark  !  it  is  the  dying  sound,  as  they  march  into  the  ground. 
To  the  sighing  and  the  dying  of  the  drum  ! 
To  the  throbbing  and  the  sobbing  of  the  drum  ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum ! " 


A  DYING  HYMN— Alice  Cary. 

Mrs.  Ames,  in  her  toiichingly  beautiful  Memorial  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary. 
tells  us  the  last  stanza  Alice  ever  wrote  was — 

"  '  As  the  poor  panting  hart  to  the  water-hrook  runs, — 
As  the  water-brook  runs  to  the  sea, — 
So  earth's  tainting  daughters  and  famishing  sons, 
0  Fountiiiu  of  Love,  run  to  Thee ! ' 
"The  writing  is  trenililing  and  uncertain,  and  the  pen  literally  fell  from  her 
hand  •  for  the  long  shadows  of  eternity  were  stealing  over  her,  and  she  was  very 
near  'the  place  where  it  is  too  dark  for  mortal  eye  to  see,  and  where  there  is  no 
work    nor  device,   nor  knowledge.       She  had  written  eariier  what  she  called, 
'.\  Dying  Hymn,'   and  it  was  a  consolation  to  her  to  repeat  it  in  her  momenta 
•f  agony:" 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 

Recedes,  and  fades  away ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  1 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way ! 

My  sonl  is  full  of  whispered  song ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  I  lea  red  so  long, 

Are  all  alive  with  light.  ^ 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  177 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  fiiith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go  ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives: 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King  ; 
0  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ! 

0  death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 


STRONG  DRINK.— J.  A.  Seiss. 

'Hie  history  of  strong  drink  is  the  history  of  ruin,  of  tears, 
oi  blood.  It  Ls,  perhaps,  the  greatest  curse  that  ever  scourged 
tne  earth.  It  is  one  of  depravity's  worst  fruits,  a  giant  demon 
of  destruction.  Men  may  talk  of  earthquakes,  storms,  con- 
tlagrations,  famine,  pestilence,  despotism,  and  war,  but  in- 
temperance in  the  use  of  intoxicating  drinks  has  sent  a  vol- 
ume of  misery  and  woe  into  the  stream  of  this  world's 
history  more  fearful  and  terrific  than  any  of  them. 

It  is  the  Amazon  and  Mississippi  among  the  rivers  of 
wretchedness.  It  is  the  Alexander  and  Napoleon  among  the 
warriors  upon  the  peace  and  good  of  man.  It  is  an  evil 
which  is  limited  to  no  age,  no  continent,  no  nation,  no  party, 
no  sex,  no  period  of  life.  It  has  taken  the  poor  man  at  his 
toil,  and  the  rich  man  at  his  desk  ;  the  senator  in  the  halls 
of  state,  and  the  drayman  on  the  street ;  the  young  man  in 
his  festivities,  and  the  old  man  in  his  repose, — and  plunged 
them  into  a  common  ruin.  It  has  raged  equally  in  times 
of  war  and  in  times  of  peace,  in  periods  of  depression  and 
in  periods  of  prosperity,  in  republics  and  in  monarchies, 
among  the  civilized  and  among  the  savages. 
12  M* 


its  ONE    IIUNDKED    CUOICE    SELECTIONS 

Since  the  time  that  Noah  came  out  of  the  ark,  and  planted 
vineyards,  and  drank  of  their  wines,  we  read  in  all  histories 
of  its  terrible  doings,  and  never  once  lose  sight  of  its  black 
and  bloody  tracks.  States  have  recorded  enactments  against 
it,  ecclesiastical  penalties  have  been  imposed  upon  it,  societies 
have  succeeded  societies  for  its  extermination,  but,  like  him 
whose  name  was  Legion,  no  man  has  been  able  to  bind  it. 

It  was  strong  drink  that  brought  the  original  curse  of  ser- 
vitude  upon  the  descendants  of  Ham,  that  has  eaten  away 
the  strength  of  empires,  wasted  the  energies  of  states,  blot- 
ted out  the  names  of  families,  and  crowded  hell  with  tenants. 
Egypt,  the  source  of  science ;  Babylon,  the  wonder  and  glory 
of  the  world;  Greece,  the  home  of  learning  and  of  liberty; 
Kome,  the  mistress  of  the  earth, — each  in  its  turn  had  its 
Iieart  lacerated  by  this  dreadful  canker-worm,  and  thus  be- 
came an  easy  i^rey  to  the  destroyer. 

It  has  drained  tears  enough  to  make  a  sea,  expended  trea- 
sure enough  to  exhaust  Golconda,  shed  blood  enough  to 
redden  the  waves  of  every  ocean,  and  wrung  out  wailii.g 
enough  to  make  a  chorus  to  the  lamentations  of  the  under- 
world. Some  of  the  mightiest  intellects,  some  of  the  most 
generous  natures,  some  of  the  happiest  homes,  some  of  the 
noblest  specimens  of  man,  it  has  blighted  and  crushed,  and 
buried  in  squalid  wretchedness. 

It  has  supplied  every  jail  and  penitentiary  and  almshouse 
and  charity  hospital  in  the  world  with  tenants.  It  has  sent 
forth  beggars  on  every  street,  and  flooded  every  city  with 
bestiality  and  crime.  It  has,  perhaps,  done  more  toward 
bringing  earth  and  hell  together  than  any  other  form  of 
vice. 

Could  we  but  dry  up  this  one  moral  ulcer,  and  sweep  away 
forever  all  the  results  of  this  one  form  of  sin,  we  would 
hardly  need  such  things  as  prisons,  asylums,  charity-houses, 
or  police.  The  children  of  haggard  want  would  sit  in  the 
halls  of  plenty.  The  tears  of  orphanage  and  widowhood 
and  disappointed  hojie  would  dwindle  in  a  goodl}''  measure. 
Disease  would  be  robbed  of  much  of  its  power.  The  clouds 
would  vanish  from  ten  thousand  afflicted  homes,  and  peace 
breathe  its  fragrance  on  the  world,  almost  as  if  the  day  of  ita 
redemption  had  come. 


NUMBER    EIGHT.  779 


THE  SNEEZING  MAN.— Ward  M.  FLOREvrs. 

Kind  friends,  your  attention  I  ask, 

Thougli  I'm'ahnost  ashamed  to  be  seen 
By  a  crowd  of  such  wise  looking  heads, 

For  fear  of  your  caUing  me  "  green  ; " 
As  stern  fate  has  so  harshly  ordained 

That  whenever  my  wish  is  to  please 
All  the  ladies  who  gaze  upon  me, 

I'm  sure  to  burst  out  in  a  snekze. 

My  cradle  was  rocked  by  a  nurse 

Whose  sneezing  was  worse  than  my  o  >vn 
And  had  it  not  been  as  it  was, 

This  curse  I  would  never  have  known  ; 
I  believe  in  my  soul  to  this  day 

That  she  brought  it  from  over  the  seas, 
Where  people  take  pleasure,  they  say, 

In  a  loud-sounding,  horrible  sneeze. 

When  boyhood  broke  forth  in  its  prime 

AVith  school-games,  all  happy  and  gay 
I  had  to  stand  by  and  look  on, 

AVithout  ever  daring  to  play; 
But  all  of  the  rest  of  the  boys 

Would  kiss  the  bright  girls  at  their  ease, 
And  leave  me  a-standing  just  so. 

To  comfort  myself  with — a  sneeze. 

This  trouble  still  followed  me  on 

Till  I  grew  up  a  good-looking  man, 
And  had  money  and  lands  of  my  own, 

And  horses — a  beautiful  span  ; 
But  whenever  a-courting  I'd  go, 

My  hopes  would  give  way  by  degrees, 
For  all  that  I  ever  could  do 

Was  to  sit  in  the  corner  and — sneeze. 

One  eve  I  was  taking  a  drive 

With  a  lady  whose  beauty  was  rare, 
And  I  managed  to  ask  hcsr  at  last. 

What  she  thought  of  tlic  cool  evening  (sneeze)  air. 
She  said,  "  'Tis  delightfully  grand. 

There  is  such  a  ponderous  brreze" — 
Ak  I  turned  aside  with  my  nose, 

To  indulge  in  a  horrible  sneeze. 


180  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE    SELECTIONS. 

I  then  became  bold  after  this, 

And  thought  of  the  hfe  I  had  led ; 
Its  loneliness  seemed  so  forlorn 

That  I  asked  this  young  damsel  to  wed ; 
And  while  my  heart  throbbed  for  reply, 

Came  on  this  infernal  disease, 
And  ere  she  could  answer  my  words, 

The  hills  had  re-echoed  a  meeze. 

She  said,  "  T  should  like  to  be  yours, 

And  live  far  away  in  the  vale; 
But  the  hair  might  be  bloim  off  my  head, 

As  your  sneezing  doth  make  such  a  gale." 
I  whispered  no  further  of  love. 

But  drove  her  straight  home  as  you  please. 
And  just  as  I  turned  from  the  door, 

I  wished  her  "  good  night," — with  a  sneeze. 

Now  friends,  I  would  pray  j^ou  be  warned 

At  the  fate  of  a  poor  fellow-man, 
And  leave  off  this  taking  of  snuff 

Just  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can. 
And  when,  in  this  battle  of  life, 

You're  desirous  of  raising  a  breeze, 
Don't  blow  on  your  nose  like  a  horn. 

And  startle  the  world  with  a  "  sneezb." 


|^t!|ii*nilk 


NOTE. 


TTze  folio jvzrtg  jDctges  corutcuirL  tfte 
SupjileTTLerhts  to  tlxe  foixr^  JSTujixbeTS 
of  lOO  CKotc-e,  SelectioThs" emTjrcLcecL 
-LTL  tJhts  -volzLTTLe,  TvJzzcli.,  for  greater 
coruvenrience  trt  cLTVCLngtrig ,  cere  liere 
gvozLpecl  togotlxer'  trhstecLcL  of  ctjppecLr- 
trtg  cut  tfte  erocl  of  tKe  JSTu^rribers  to 
■w^TvicJi.  tTtey  respectively  heloTvg, 


SUPPLEMENT  TO 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  ¥0. 5 

CONTAINING 

SENTIMENTS  For  Public  Occasions; 

"WITTICISMS  For  Home  Enjoyment; 

LIFE  THOUGHTS  For  Private  Reflection; 

FUNNY  SAYINGS  For  Social  Pastime,  &c. 


S(;me  one  truly  says,  the  best  way  for  a  man  to  train  up  a 
cliild  i.\  the  way  it  should  go,  is  to  travel  that  way  some- 
times mmself. 

Adversity  is  of  no  use  co  some  men,  and  prosperity  is  of 
no  advantage  to  others.  Experience  is  wanting  to  both, 
and  the  cloud  and  the  rainbow  are  misconceived  ali-ke;  the 
former  is  no  token  of  darkness,  the  latter  no  covenant  of 
peace. 

Men  resemhje  the  gods  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  doing 
good  to  their  i^ilow  creatures.  Cicero. 

The  best  things  are  nearest ;  breath  in  your  nostrils,  light 
in  your  eyes,  flowers  at  your  feet,  duties  at  your  hand, 
the  path  of  God  just  before  you.  Then  do  not  grasjj  at  the 
stars,  but  do  life's  plain,  common  work  as  it  comes,  certain 
that  daily  duties  auor  daily  bread  are  the  sweetest  things  of 
life. 

In  this  world  a  man  is  likely  to  get  what  he  gives.  Men's 
hearts  are  like  a  whispering  gallery  to  you.  Ifj'ou  speak 
softly  a  gentle  whisper  comes  back ;  if  you  scold  you  get 
scolded.  With  the  measure  you  mete  it  is  measured  to  you 
again. 

Time  never  works;  it  ei.ts,  and  undermines,  and  rots,  and 
rusts,  and  destroys.  But  it  never  works.  It  only  gives  us 
an  opportunity  to  work.  Lyman  Abbott. 

Labor  is  man's  great  function.  He  is  nothing,  he  can  be 
nothing,  he  can  achieve  nothing,  he  can  fuUill  nothing  with- 
out labor.  Orville  Dewey. 

189 


190  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   5. 

A  burden  that  one  chooses  is  not  felt. 

Bells  call  others  to  church,  but  enter  not  themselves. 

Cliildren  and  fools  always  speak  the  truth. 

Do  what  you  ought,  and  let  come  what  will. 

Empty  vessels  make  the  greatest  sound. 

Fair  and  softly,  go  sure  and  far. 

Grieving  for  misfortunes,  is  adding  gall  to  wormwood. 

He  that  will  not  be  counselled,  cannot  be  helped. 

It  is  good  to  begin  well,  but  better  to  end  well. 

Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged. 

Kindness  will  creep  when  it  cannot  walk. 

Little  strokes  fell  great  oaks. 

Many  a  true  word  is  spoken  in  jest. 

Nothing  is  troublesome  that  we  do  willingly. 

Oil  and  truth  will  get  uppermost  at  last. 

Pride  goes  before,  and  shame  follows  after. 

Quarrel  not  with  an  angry  man. 

Reflect  well  before  you  say  yes,  or  no. 

Say  well  is  good ;  but  do  well  is  better. 

The  crow  thinks  her  own  birds  the  whitest. 

Unwearied  diligence  the  point  will  gain. 

Virtue  is  the  forerunner  of  happiness. 

Wealth  is  not  his  who  gets  it ;  but  his  who  enjoys  it. 

Youth  is  the  best  season  for  improvement. 

Zeal  without  knowledge  availeth  little. 

Scowling  and  growling  wull  make  a  man  old; 
Money  and  fame  at  the  best  are  beguiling, 
Don't  be  suspicious  and  selfish  and  cold, — 
Try  smiling. 

There's  music  in  the  sighing  of  a  reed ; 

There's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  rill ; 

There's  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears ; 

Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres.  Byron. 

It  is  one  of  the  precious  mysteries  of  sorrow,  that  it  finds 
solace  in  unselfish  thought.  James  A.  Garfield. 

Familiarity  does  not  breed  contempt,  except  of  contempt- 
ible things,  or  in  contemptible  people.  Phillips  Brooks. 


SENTIMENTS   AND   LIFE  THOUGHTS.  191 

God  is  attracting  our  regard  in  and  through  all  tilings. 
Zvery  flower  is  a  hint  of  his  beauty,  every  grain  of  wheat 
is  a,  luken  of  his  beneficence;  every  atom  of  dust  is  a  reve- 
lation of  his  power.  '  W.  II.  Furness. 

A  delicate  thought  is  a  flower  of  the  mind.  RoUin. 

Experience  is  the  extract  of  suffering.  Arthur  Helps. 

To  think  we  are  able  is  almost  to  be  so;  to  determine 
upon  attainment  is  frequently  attainment  itself.  Thus 
earnest  resolution  has  often  seemed  to  have  about  it  almost 
a  savor  of  omnipotence.  Smiles. 

For  lo !  the  days  are  hastening  on; 

By  prophet  bards  foretold, 

When,  with  the  ever  circling  years, 

Comes  round  the  age  of  gold! 

When  peace  sh;dl  over  all  the  earth 

Its  final  splendors  fling, 

And  the  whole  world  send  back  the  song 

Which  now  the  ungels  sing !  Sears. 

Better  the  chance  of  shipwreck  on  a  voyage  of  high  pur- 
pose, than  expend  life  in  paddling  hither  and  thither  on  a 
shallow  stream  to  no  purpose  at  all.  Miss  Sedgwick. 

I  venerate  old  age,  and  love  not  the  man  who  can  look 
without  emotion  upon  the  sunset  of  life,  when  the  dusk  of 
eveningbegins  to  gatlier  over  the  watery  eye,  and  tlie  shadows 
of  twilight  grow  broader  and  deeper  upon  the  understanding. 

Longfelloiv. 
Nt)r  steel  nor  fire  itself  hath  power 
Like  woman  in  her  conquering  hour. 
Be  thou  but  fair,  mankind  adore  thee, 
Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee.  Moore. 

I  do  not  tremble  when  I  meet 

The  stoutest  of  my  foes. 

But  heaven  defend  me  from  the  friend 

Who  comes  but  never  goes.  Saxe. 

Be  firm  and  be  faithful ;  desert  not  the  right. 

The  brave  are  the  ))older,  the  darker  the  night; 

Then  up  and  Ije  doing,  though  cowards  may  fail, 

Thy  duty  f)ursning,  dare  all,  and  prevail.    Norman  McLeod. 

This  world  is  not  so  bad  a  world 

As  some  would  wish  to  make  it; 

Though  whether  good  or  whether  bad 

Depends  on  how  we  take  it.  M.  W.  Beck. 


192  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.  5. 

Education  is  the  bulwark  of  freedom  and  free  government. 
The  devil  is  credited   with  a  great   deal  of  mischief  that 
the  stomach  is  guilty  of.  B.  F.  Taylor. 

An  Athenian,  who  wanted  eloquence,  but  who  was  very 
brave,  when  another  had,  in  a  long  and  brilliant  speech, 
promised  great  affairs,  got  up  and  said:— "Men  of  Athens, 
all  that  he  has  said  1  will  du." 

As  the  ivy  twines  around  the  oak,  so  does  misery  and 
misfortune  encompass  the  happiness  of  man.  Felicity,  pure 
and  unalloyed  felicity,  is  nut  a  plant  of  earthly  growth;  her 
gardens  are  the  skies. 

Music  resembles  poetry ;  in  each 

Are  nameless  graces,  which  no  methods  teach, 

And  which  a  master's  hand  alone  can  reach.       Pope. 

No  radiant  pearl  which  crested  fortune  wears, 

No  gem  that  twinkling  hangs  from  beauty's  ears, 

Not  the  bright  stars  which  night's  blue  arch  adorn, 

Nor  rising  sun  that  gilds  the  vernal  morn, 

fShine  with  such  lustre  as  the  tear  that  flows 

Down  virtue's  manly  cheek  for  others'  woes.       Darwin. 

"Success  is  full  of  promise   till  men  get  it;  and  then  it  is  a 
last  year's  nest,  from  which  the  bird  has  flown.  Beccher. 

Ah  woman!  in  this  world  of  ours 

What  gift  can  be  compared  to  thee? 
How  slow  would  drag  life's  weary  hours. 

Though  man's  proud  brow  were  bound  with  flowers, 
And  his  the  wealth  of  land  and  sea, 

If  destined  to  exist  alone. 
And  ne'er  call  woman's  heart  his  own !  Morris. 

Old  age  is  not  so  fiery  as  youth,  but  when  provoked  cannot 
be  appeased. 

A  man's  country  is  not  a  certain  area  of  land,  of  mountains, 
rivers  and  woods,— but  it  is  a  principle ;  and  patriotism  is 
loyalty  to  that  principle.  G.  W.  Curtis. 

Men  are  often  capable  of  greater  things  than  they  perform. 
They  are  sent  into  the  world  with  bills  of  credit  and  seldom 
iraw  to  their  full  extent.  Walpole. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long,^ 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong.  '  LongfcUuw, 


f 


SENTIMENTS    AND   LIFE    THOUGHTS.  193 

We  all  complain  of  the  shortness  of  time,  and  yet  have 
much  more  than  we  know  what  to  do  with.  Onr  lives  are 
spent  either  in  doing  nothing  at  all,  or  in  doing  nothing  to 
the  purpose,  or  in  doing  nothing  that  we  ought  to  do ;  we 
are  always  complaining  that  onr  days  are  few,  and  acting  as 
though  there  would  be  no  end  of  them.  Seneca. 

Do  good  and  leave  behind  you  a  monument  of  virtue 
that  the  storm  of  time  can  never  destroy.  Write  your  name 
in  kindness,  love,  and  mercy,  on  the  hearts  of  thousands 
you  come  in  contact  with  year  by  year;  you  will  never  be 
forgotten.  No;  your  name,  your  deeds  will  be  as  legible  on 
the  hearts  you  leave  behind  as  the  stars  on  the  bow  of  the 
evening.    Good  deeds  will  shine  as  the  stars  o'f  heaven. 

Chalmers. 

Temperance  and  labor  are  the  two  best  physicians  of  man  ; 
labor  sharpens  the  appetite,  and  temperance  prevents  him 
from  indulging  to  excess.  Rousseau. 

Man  can  never  come  up  to  his  ideal  standard;  it  is  the 
nature  of  the  immortal  spirit  to  raise  that  standard  higher 
and  higher,  as  itgoes  from  strength  to  strength,  still  upward 
and  onward.  Accordingly,  the  wisest  and  greatest  men  are 
ever  the  most  modest.  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli. 

Dust,  by  its  own  nature,  can  rise  only  so  fer  above  the 
road;  and  birds  which  fly  higher  never  have  it  upon  their 
•wings.  So  the  heart  that  knows  how  to  fly  high  enough, 
escapes  those  little  cares  and  vexations  which  brood  upon 
the  earth,  but  cannot  rise  above  it  into  that  purer  air. 

BeecJur. 

Kind  words  are  looked  uj)on  like  jewels  in  the  breast, 
never  to  be  forgotten,  and,  perhaps,  to  cheer  by  their  mem- 
ory a  long,  sad  life;  while  words  of  cruelty  or  of  carelessness 
are  like  swords  in  the  bosom,  wounding  and  leaving  scars 
which  will  be  borne  to  the  grave  by  their  victim. 

Life  is  a  short  day,  but  it  is  a  working  day.  Activity  may 
lead  to  evil,  but  inactivity  cannot  be  led  to  good. 

Hannah  More. 

He  that  can  heroically  endure  adversity  will  bear  prosper- 
ity with  equal  greatness  of  soul;  for  tiu;  mind  that  cannot 
b(!  dejected  by  the  former  is  not  likely  to  be  transported 
with  the  latter.  Fiehliiiy 

We  give  advice  by  the  bucket,  but  lake  it  l)y  the  grain. 

Ahjtr. 


191  ONE   IIUXDRIJD   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.   5. 

Just,  men  are  only  free,  the  rest  are  slaves.        Chapman. 

Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  l)low. 

Byron. 
An  idler  is  a  watch  that  wants  both  hands, 
As  useless  if  it  goes  as  when  it  stands.  Covpcr. 

Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast, 

To  soften  rocks,  and  bend  tlie  knotted  oak.        Congreve. 

The  man  whom  Heaven  appoints 

To  govern  others,  should  himself  first  learn 

To  bend  his  passions  to  the  sway  of  reason.     Thompson. 

Our  time  is  fixed;  and  all  our  days  are  numbered, 
How  lon^,  how  short,  we  know  not:  this  we  know, 
Duty  requires  we  calmly  wait  the  summons.  Blair. 

There  are  moments  of  life  that  we  never  forget, 
Which  brighten,  and  brighten,  as  time  steals  away  ; 
Tliey  give  a  new  charm  to  the  happiest  lot, 
And  they  shine  on  the  gloom  of  the  loneliest  day. 

Walls  of  brass  resist  not 
A  noble  undertaking,  nor  can  vice 
Raise  any  bulwark  to  make  good  a  place, 
Where  virtue  seeks  to  enter. 

Sure  there  is  none  but  fears  a  future  state ; 
And  when  the  most  obdurate  swear  they  do  not, 
Their  trembling  hearts  belie  their  boasting  tongues. 

Dryden. 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare.      Wilcox. 

The  faults  of  our  neighbors  with  freedom  we  blame, 
And  tax  not  ourselves,  though  we  practice  the  same. 

Compare  each  phrase,  examine  everj'  line. 
Weigh  every  word,  and  every  thought  refine. 

A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities.      Shalcspeare. 

The  worst  of  slaves  is  he  whom  passion  rules.  Brooke. 

Nay,  don't  lose  heart;  small  men  and  mighty  nations 
Have  learned  a  grgat  deal  when  they  practice  patience. 

Gvdhe. 
The  rose  is  feirest  when  'tis  budding  new, 
And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  fears; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  washed  with  morning  dew, 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in  tears.     Scott. 


WITTICISMS    AND   FUNNY   SAYINGS.  !•><> 

It  is  related  that  while  preaching  from  the  text:  "He 
givetli  his  beloved  sleep/'  a  Toledo  minister  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  his  sermon,  gazed  upon  his  sleeping  auditors  and 
said,  "Bretliren,  it  is  hard  to  realize  the  wondrous,  un- 
bounded love  the  Lord  appears  to  have  for  a  good  portion 
of  this  congregation." 

A  rural ist  seated  himself  in  a  restaurant,  the  other  day, 
and  began  on  the  bill  of  fare.  After  employing  three  wait- 
ers nearly  half  an  hour  in  bringing  dishes  to  him,  he  heaved 
a  sigh,  and  whispered,  as  he  put  his  finger  on  the  bill  of 
fiire:  "Mister,  I've  et  to  thar,"  and,  moving  his  finger  to  the 
bottom  of  the  bill,  "  ef  it  isn't  agin  the  rule,  I'd  like  to  skip 
from  thar  to  thar." 

A  member  of  the  New  Hampshire  Legislature  denounced 
a  bill  that  was  under  discussion  as  "  treacherous  as  was  the 
stabbing  of  Cajsar  by  Judas  in  the  Roman  capitol."  Then 
he  got  out  of  it  by  saying  that  he  used  "  by  Judas,"  as  a  sort 
of  expletive,  just  as  he  would  say,  "  by  George,"  or  "  by 
Tunket."  He  knew  well  enough  it  was  Hanriibal  who 
stabbed  Csesar. 

A  philosopher,  who  went  to  a  church  where  the  people 
came  in  late,  said  :  "  It  is  the  fashion  there  for  nobody  to  go 
till  everybody  has  got  there." 

A  poor  young  man  remarks  that  the  only  advice  he  gets 
from  capitalists  is  to  "  live  within  his  income,"  whereas  the 
difficulty  he  experiences  is  to  live  without  an  income. 

It  was  at  the  Music  Hall  not  long  since  that  a  lady  re- 
marked to  a  visiting  friend,  after  a  solo  on  the  big  organ: 
'■  That's  all  very  well;  but  you  just  wait  till  they  put  on  the 
vox  populi." 

The  Czar  saj-s  he  is  ready  to  meet  death  whenever  it 
comes.  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  in  tliis  connection  to  say 
that  death  is  ready  to  meet  the  Czar  wherever  he  goes. 

The  man  who  can  see  sermons  in  i-unning  brooks  is  most 
apt  to  go  and  look  for  (hem  on  Sundays  when  trout  are 
biting. 

The  crying  baV)y  at  the  public  rrteeting  is  like  a  good 
suggestion  ;  it  ought  to  be  carried  out. 

"It's  a  long  way  from  this  world  to  the  next,"  said  a  dying 
man  to  a  friend.     "Oh,  never  mind,  my  dear  fellow,"  an- 
swered his  friend,  consolingly;  "you'll  have  it  all  downhill." 
2gg 


196  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No,   5. 

A  person  overheard  two  countrymen,  who  were  observing 
a  naturalist  in  the  field  collecting  insects,  say  one  to  another: 
"What's  that  fellow  doing,  John?"  "  Why,  he's  a  natural- 
ist." "  What's  that?"'  "  Why,  one  who  catches  gnats  to  be 
sure !" 

They  sat  together  in  tlie  lamp-light  and  read  the  adver- 
tising columns  of  their  local  paper,  when  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, "Look,  only  $15  for  a  suit  of  clothes!"  "Is  it  a 
wedding  suit?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  "it  is  a 
business  suit."  "  Well,  I  meant  business,"  she  replied.  That 
settled  it. 

Prof,  in  psychology:  "Can  we  conceive  anything  as  being 
out  of  time  and  still  occupying  space?"  Musical  student 
(thoughtfully):     "  Yes,  sir.     A  poor  singer  in  a  chorus." 

A  Hartford  Sunday-school  boy  gave  his  teacher  this  illus- 
trative definition  of  "responsibility"  :  "Boys  has  two  but- 
tons to  their  'spenders  so's  to  keep  their  pants  up.  When 
one  button  comes  off,  there's  a  good  deal  of  responsibility 
on  the  other  button." 

"Does  our  talk  disturb  you?"  said  one  of  a  company  of 
talkative  ladies  to  an  old  gentleman  sitting  in  a  railway  sta- 
tion the  other  afternoon,  "  No,  ma'am,"  was  the  naive  reply, 
"I've  been  married  nigh  on  to  forty  years." 

A  little  fellow,  on  going  for  the  first  time  to  church  where 
the  pews  were  very  high,  was  asked  on  coming  out  what  he 
did  in  the  church,  when  he  replied:  "I  went  into  a  cuj)- 
board  and  took  a  seat  on  a  shelf." 

A  widow  at  the  "West,  intending  to  succeed  her  husband 
in  the  management  of  a  hotel,  advertises  that  "  The  hotel 
will  be  kept  by  the  widow  of  the  former  landlord,  Mr.  Bro^vn, 
who  died  last  summer  on  a  new  and  improved  plan." 

An  affected  j'oung  lady,  on  being  asked  in  a  large  com- 
pany, if  she  had  read  Shakspeare,  assumed  a  look  of  aston- 
ishment and  replied:  "Read  Shakspeare!  Of  course  I 
have ;  I  read  that  when  it  first  came  out." 

Australian  fun:  "Come,"  said  one  of  a  couple  of  lawyers, 
sauntering  through  the  new  Law  Courts  in  Melbourne  the 
other  day,  "  let's  take  a  look  at  what  is  to  be  the  new  Court." 
"  Yes,"  returned  the  other,  "let's  view  the  ground  where  we 
shall  shortly  lie." 


WITTICISMS   AND   FUNNY   SAYINGS.  197 

"Your  little  birdie  has  been  ver)',  very  sick,"  she  wrote 
to  the  young  man.  "It  was  some  sort  of  nervous  trouble, 
and  the  doctors  said  1  should  have  perfect  rest  and  quiet,  and 
that  I  must  think  of  nothiug— absolutely  nothing.  And  all 
the  time  dear  George,  I  thought  constantly  of  you."  The 
young  man  read  it  over,  and  then  read  it  through  again  very 
slowly,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  went  out  under  the  .silent 
stars,  and  kept  thinking,  and  thinking,  and  thinking.  But 
he  didn't  say  anything.     He  only  kept  thinking. 

A  Western  "  poet"  gets  off  the  following  explanation  of  a 
steamboat  explosion : 

The  engine  groaned. 
The  wheels  did  creak. 
The  steam  did  whistle, 
And  the  boiler  did  leak. 
The  boiler  was  examined, 
They  found  it  was  rusted, 
And  all  on  a  sudden 
The  old  thing  busted. 

"  Mary,  T  am  glad  your  heel  has  got  well."  "  Why  ?"  said 
Mary,  opening  her  eyes  with  astonishment.  "  Because," 
saidJane,  quietly,  "  I  see  it  is  able  to  get  out."  Mary's  stock- 
ing had  a  hole  in  it. 

"  Whenever  I  marry,"  says  masculine  Ann, 
"I  must  really  insist  upon  wedding  a  man!" 
But  what  if  the  man  (for  men  are  but  human) 
Should  be  equally  nice  about  wedding  a  woman? 

Could  anything  be  neater  than  the  old  darkey's  reply  to  a 
beautiful  j'oung  lady  whom  he  offered  to  lift  over  the  gutter, 
and  who  insisted  she  was  too  heavy.  "  Lor',  Missus,"  said 
he,  "I'se  used  to  lifting  barrels  of  sugar." 

A  poor  weather-bound  individual,  caught  in  the  rain,  wae 
overheard  humming  to  himself  in  a  doorway: 

'Twas  ever  tluis,  from  childhood's  hour 

That  chilling  fate  has  on  me  fell ; 
There  always  comes  a  soaking  shower 
When  I  hain't  got  no  umberell. 

Colorado  poetry:  "The  evening  for  her  bath  of  dew  is 
partially  undressed;  The  sun  behind  a  bobtail  flush  is  set- 
ting ill  the  west;  The  planets  light  the  heavens  with  the 
flash  of  their  cigurs;  The  sky  has  jnit  its  night-shirt  on, 
and  buttoned  it  with  stars." 


rl)S  OXE    HUNDRED    CHOICE   SELECTIONS    No.   5. 

Why  is  a  coward  like  a  leaky  barrel?    They  both  run. 

Why  is  anthracite  coal  like  true  love?  Because  it  burns 
with  a  steady  flame. 

Why  are  lovers  like  apples?  Because  they  are  often 
paired. 

Wliy  will  an  insolent  fishmonger  get  more  business  than 
a  civil  one?  Because  when  he  sells  tish,  he  gives  sauce 
with  it. 

Why  are  hot  rolls  like  caterpillars?  Because  they  make 
the  butter-fly. 

When  does  a  dog  become  larger  and  smaller?  When  let 
out  at  night,  and  taken  in  in  the  morning. 

Why  is  a  lady's  chignon  like  a  historical  romance?  Be- 
caiTse  it's  fiction  founded  on  fact. 

What  belongs  to  yourself,  and  is  used  by  your  friends  more 
than  by  yourself?    Your  name. 

Why  is  a  gun  like  a  jury  ?    It  goes  off  when  discharged. 

Why  is  a  cornfield  like  a  galvanic  battery?  Because  it 
produces  shocks. 

Why  are  confectioners  mercenary  lovers?  Because  they 
always  sell  their  kisses. 

Why  are  tallest  people  the  laziest?  Because  they  are 
always  longer  in  bed  than  others. 

Why  is  a  watch  like  a  river?  Because  it  won't  run  long 
without  winding. 

Who  was  the  fastest  runner  in  the  world?  Adam,  be- 
cause he  was  first  in  the  human  race. 

If  you  are  inviied  out  to  dine  and  found  nothing  on  the 
table  but  a  beet,  what  would  you  say?    That  beefs  all. 

Why  should  a  man  always  wear  a  watch  when  he  travels 
in  a  desert?    Because  every  watch  has  a  spring  in  it. 

Why  is  a  young  lady  like  a  promissory  note?  Because 
she  ought  to  be  settled  when  she  arrives  at  maturity. 

What  is  the  difference  between  a  young  baby,  and  anight 
cap?    One  is  born  to  wed,  and  the  other  is  worn  to  bed. 

What  is  that  which  Adam  never  saw,  never  possessed, 
yet  left  two  to  each  of  his  children  ?    Parents. 

How  long  did  Cain  hate  his  brother?  As  long  as  he  was 
Abel. 

Why  was  Job  always  cold  in  bed?  Because  he  had  such 
miserable  comforters. 


WriTICISMS   AND    FUNNT  SAYINGS.  1^^9 

A  Quaker's  advice  to  his  son  on  his  wedding-day :  "  When 
thee  went  a  courting,  I  told  thee  to  keep  thy  eyes  wide  open. 
2S'ow  that  thee  is  married,  I  tell  thee  to  keep  them  half-shut." 

"  Colonel,"  said  a  man  who  wanted  to  make  out  a  geneal- 
ogical tree,  "Colonel,  how  can  1  become  thoroughly  acquaint- 
ed with  my  family  history?"  "Simply  by  running  for  Con- 
gress," answered  the  coloueL    • 

Mistress  (horrified). — "Good  gracious,  Bridget,  have  you 
been  using  one  of  my  stockings  to  strain  the  coffee  through?' 
Bridget  (apologetically). — "  Yis,  mum ;  but  sure  1  didn't  take 
a  clane  one !" 

"Don't  stand  on  ceremony,  come  in,"  said  a  lady  to  an  old 
farmer  who  had  called  to  see  her  husband.  "  My  goodness, 
excuse  me,  marm,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "  1  thort  I  were 
a  standiu'  on  the  door  mat." 

"Do  I  look  anything  like  yon,  Mr.  Jones?"  inquired  Cau- 
liflower. "I  hope  not,"  was  the  reply.  "Did  a  man  take 
you  for  me?"  "Yes."  "Where  is  he?  I  must  lick  him." 
'Oh,  he's  dead.     I  shot  him  on  the  spot." 

"I've  written  a  new  play,"  said  an  aesthetic  young  Phil- 
adelj)hian  last  week,  addressing  a  lady  noted  for  her  wit 
and  beauty.  "Indeed;  and  what  is  its  title?"  she  asked. 
"Before  the  dawn,"  said  he.  "Keep  it  dark,"  was  her 
witty  and  crushing  rejoinder. 

Scientists  have  discovered  worms  in  fishes,  and  are  bother- 
ing their  brains  to  know  how  they  came  there.  Very  simple. 
We  have  fed  .something  le.ss  than  a  million  worms  to  fishes 
ourselves.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to  put  a  worm  on  a  hook, 
drop  it  into  the  water,  and  the  fishes  will  eat  it  off  as  clean 
as  a  whistle.  Worms  in  fishes!  It  is  a  wonder  they  aren't 
swimming  bait  boxes. 

"You  are  weak,"  said  a  woman  to  her  son  who  was  re- 
monstrating against  her  marrying  again.  "Yes,  mother,'  he 
replied,  "I  am  so  weak  that  I  can't  go  a  step-father." 

A  Frenchman,  being  afflicted  with  the  gout,  was  asked 
what  difference  there  was  between  that  an<l  the  rheumatism. 
"One  very  great  difference,"  replied  Monsieur;  "suppose 
yon  take  one  vice,  you  put  your  finger  in,  you  turn  de  screw, 
till  you  bear  him  no  lunger— dat  is  ze  rhcumatis;  den,spose 
you  give  him  one  turn  more,  dat  is  ze  gout." 


200  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE   SELECTIONS    No.   5. 

"  How  does  that  soot  you  ?"  asked  the  chimney.  "  I  think 
that  you  are  a  tiling  of  flues  habits,"  answered  the  poker. 

When  a  colored  man  has  a  fever,  is  he  a  fever  nagur  pa- 
tient? 

One  of  the  managers  of  a  hospital  asked  an  Irish  nurse 
which  he  considered  tlie  most  dangerous  of  the  many  cases 
then  in  the  hospital.  "  That,  sir,"  said  Patrick,  as  he  pointed 
to  a  case  of  surgical  instruments  on  the  table. 

The  story  of  a  millionaire  is  always  a  capital  one. 

A  country  doctor  on  being  asked  what  was  the  best  way 
to  cure  a  ham,  remarked  tliat  before  answering  that  ques- 
tion he  should  want  to  know  what  ailed  the  ham. 

It  would  never  do  to  elect  women  to  all  offices.  If  a 
female  sheriff  sliould  visit  the  residence  of  a  handsome  man 
and  ex])lain  to  his  jealous  wife  that  she  had  an  attach- 
ment for  him,  there  would  be  a  vacancy  of  that  office  in 
about  two  minutes. 

"  Lemmy,  you're  a  pig,"  said  a  farmer  to  his  son,  who  was 
five  years  old.  "  Now,  do  you  know  what  a  pig  is,  Lemmy," 
"  Yes,  sir ;  a  pig  is  a  hog's  little  boy." 

A  man  said  he  sung  as  well  as  most  men  in  England,  and 
thus  proved  it;  the  most  men  in  England  do  not  sing  well, 
therefore  I  sing  as  well  as  most  men  in  England. 

Two  country  attorneys  overtaking  a  wagoner,  with  two 
span  of  horses,  and,  thinking  to  be  witty  at  his  expense, 
asked  him,  "  How  it  happened  that  his  forward  horses  were 
BO  fat,  and  the  rear  ones  so  lean?"  The  wagoner,  knowing 
them,  answered  that  his  fore  span  were  lawyers,  and  the 
other — clients. 


SUPPLEMENT  TO 

One  Ilimdred  Choice  Selections,  ¥o.  6 

CONTAINING 

SENTIMENTS  For  Public  Occasions; 

WITTICISMS  For  Home  Enjoyment; 

LIFE  THOUGHTS  For  Private  Reflection; 

FUNNY  SAYINGS  For  Social  Pastime,  &o. 


The  perfect  woman  is  as  beautiful  as  she  is  strong,  as 
tender  as  she  is  sensible.  She  is  calm,  deliberate,  dignified, 
leisureh\  She  is  gay,  graceful,  sprightly,  sympathetic.  She 
is  severe  upon  occasion,  and  upon  occasion  playful.  She 
has  fancies,  dreams,  romances,  ideas.  She  organizes  neat- 
ness, and  order,  and  comfort,  but  they  are  merely  the  foun- 
dation whereon  rises  the  temple  other  home,  beautiful  for 
situation,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth.  Gail  Hamilton. 

Flowers  are  the  emblems  and  manifestations  of  God's  love 
to  the  creation,  and  they  are  the  means  and  ministrations 
of  man's  love  to  his  fellow-creatures,  for  they  first  awaken 
in  the  mind  a  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Sin  lias  many  tools,  but  a  lie  is  the  handle  which  fits 
them  all.  Holmes. 

Consequences  are  unpitying.  Our  deeds  carry  their  terri- 
ble consequences,  quite  apart  from  any  fluctuations  that 
went  before — consequences  that  are  hardly  ever  confined 
to  ourselves.  And  it  is  best  to  fix  our  minds  on  that  certain- 
ty, instead  of  considering  what  may  be  the  elements  of 
excuse  for  us.  George  Eliot. 

Passions  act  as  wind  to  propel  our  vessel,  and  our  reason 
Is  the  pilot  that  steers  her;  without  the  wind  we  could  not 
move,  and  without  the  pilot  we  should  be  lost. 

"No  ignorant,  no  indolent,  no  irreligious  people  can  ever 
be  permanently  a  free  people.  Thomas  G.  AInord. 


192  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

A  noble  man  compares  and  estimates  himself  by  an  idea 
■which  is  higher  than  himself,  and  a  mean  man  by  one  which 
is  lower  than  himself  The  one  produces  aspiration ;  the 
other,  ambition.  Ambition  is  the  way  in  which  a  vulgar 
man  aspires.  Bceclier. 

In  ancient  days  the  most  celebrated  precept  was,  "  Know 
thyself;"  in  modern  times  it  has  been  supplanted  by  the 
more  fashionable  maxim,  "  Know  thy  neighbor,  and  every- 
thing about  him."  Johnson. 

Mere  thought  convinces;  feeling  always  persuades.  If 
imagination  furnishes  the  fact  with  wings,  feeling  is  the  great 
stout  muscle  which  plies  them,  and  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 
Thought  sees  beauty,  emotion  feels  it.  Theodore  Parker. 

Work  and  play  are  the  universal  ordinance  of  God  for  the 
living  races,  in  w-hich  they  symbolize  the  fortune  and  inter- 
pret the  errand  of  man.  No  creature  lives  that  must  not 
work  and  may  not  play.  Horace  Bushnell. 

The  cure  for  gossip  is  culture.  Good-natured  people  often 
talk  about  their  neighbors,  because  they  have  nothing  else 
to  talk  about.  /.  G.  Holland. 

Curiosity  is  not  the  monopoly  of  sex.  Joaquin  Miller. 

Idleness  does  more  to  reduce  the  average  length  of  human 
life  than  the  full  normal  exercise  of  one's  industrial  energies. 
In  other  words,  more  men  and  women  rust  out  than  wear  out. 

This  world  is  simply  the  threshold  of  our  vast  life, — the 
first  stepping-stone  from  non-entity  into  the  boundless 
expanse  of  possibility.    It  is  the  infant-school  of  the  soul. 

T.  Starr  King. 

Look  up  and  not  down,  look  forward  and  not  back,  look 
out  and  not  in,  and  lend  a  hand.  Edward  Everett  Hale. 

Apology  is  only  egotism  wrong  side  out.  Holmes. 

The  little  I  have  seen  of  the  world,  and  know  of  the 
history  of  mankind,  teaches  me  to  look  upon  the  errors  of 
others  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger.  I  would  fain  leave  the 
erring  soul  of  my  fellow-man  with  Him  from  whose  hands 
it  came.  Longfellow. 

Whatever  may  be  conceded  to  the  influence  of  refined 
education  on  minds  of  peculiar  structure,  reason  and  experi- 
ence both  forbid  us  to  expect  that  national  morality  can 
prevail  in  exclusion  of  religious  principles.  Washington, 


SENTIMENTS   AND   LIFE   THOUGHTS.  198 

We  hold  these  truths  self-evident :  that  all  men  are  creat  /i 
equal ;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain 
inalienable  rights;  that  among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and 
the  pursuit  of  happiness.  Thomas  Jefferson. 

It  certainly  cannot  be  affirmed  that  we  in  America,  any 
more  than  persons  or  peoi)les  elsewhere,  have  reached  as 
yet  the  ideal  state,  of  private  liberty  combined  with  a 
perfect  public  order,  or  of  culture  complete,  and  a  supreme 
character.  The  political  world,  as  well  as  the  religious, 
since  Christ  was  on  earth,  looks  forward,  not  backward,  for 
its  millennium.  -K.  S.  Starrs. 

Who  is  not  proud  to  be  an  American  ?  Lives  there  to-day, 
anywhere,  a  man  of  any  station  in  life,  of  any  order  of  intel- 
ligence, of  any  sojourn  in  any  other  climes,  of  any  creed  or 
faith,  of  any  political  opinions,  of  any  section,  who  does 
not  stand  more  erect  and  bear  himself  more  lofty,  when 
able  to  say  that  he  is  an  American  citizen.     Fernando  Wood. 

Danger  from  party  there  can  never  be  if  men  will  be  tole- 
rant; if  parties  are  founded  on  great  i)rinciples  and  the 
individual  members  will  think  and  reason  for  themselves. 
He  who  does  not  do  this,  but  blindly  and  unthinkingly  yields 
to  party  behests,  even  though  he  lives  in  a  free  government, 
is  not  a  free  man.  B.  K.  Elliott. 

Wealth  and  luxury  are  sources  of  weakness  rather  than 
strength  if  not  accompanied  by  intellectual  vigor  and  moral 
rectitude. 

Sooner  or  later,  by  the  very  discipline  which  their  errors, 
with  the  consequent  sufferings,  enforce,  men  will  learn  the 
art  of  self-government  and  the  secret  of  that  art,  when 
learned,  will  be  little  else  than  the  wiser  head  and  warmer 
heart  and  more  helpful  hand  of  a  developed  manhood. 

R.  A.  Holland. 

The  nation  which  educates  its  men  according  to  the  best 
type  of  manhood  should  rank  as  the  foremost  of  the  earth. 

Hugh  M.  Thompson. 

The  height  of  ability  consists  in  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  real  value  of  things,  and  of  the  genius  of  tlie  age  we 
live  m.  -^«  Rochefoucauld. 

That  which  we  acquire  with  the  most  difficulty  w-e  retain 
the  long(;st;  as  those  who  have  earned  a  fortune  are  usually 
more  careful  of  it  than  those  who  have  inherited  one. 

Colto)i. 

20G* 


194  ONK  HUNDRED  CnOICE  SELECTIONS    No.   6. 

The  heart's  affections, —  are  they  not  like  flowers? 
In  life's  first  spring  they  blossom ;  summer  comes, 
And  'neath  the  scorching  blaze  they  droop  apace; 
Autumn  revives  them  not;  in  languid  groups 
They  linger  still,  perchance,  by  grove  or  stream. 
But  winter  frowns,  and  gives  them  to  the  winds; 
They  all  are  withered.  Beh, 

Yes!     Failure's  a  part  of  the  infinite  plan  ; 

Wlio  finds  that  he  can't,  must  give  way  to  who  can  ; 

And  as  one  and  another  droi)3  out  of  the  race. 

Each  stumbles  at  last  to  his  suitable  place.     Mrs.  Whitney. 

Be  calm  in  arguing;  for  fierceness  makes 

Error  a  fault,  and  truth  discourtesy.  Herbert, 

Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,  'tis  true  ; 

But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgments  too?  Pope. 

War  brings  ruin  where  it  should  amend; 

But  beauty,  with  a  bloodless  conquest,  finds 

A  welcome  sovereignty  in  rudest  minds.  Waller. 

How  vain  are  all  hereditary  honors, 

Those  poor  possessions  from  another's  deeds, 

Unless  our  own  just  virtues  form  our  title 

And  give  a  sanction  to  our  fond  assumption.        Shirley. 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever; 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness.  Kealfi, 

Straight  from  the  hand  of  God  comes  many  a  gift, 
Fraught  with  healing  and  with  consolation 
For  a  world  of  toil  and  tribulation ; 
And  yet  from  which  we  blindly  shrink  and  shift. 
As  from  a  burden  onerous  to  lift. 

If  a  man  would  be  invariable. 

He  must  be  like  a  rock,  or  stone,  or  tree ; 

For  even  the  perfect  angels  were  not  stable, 

But  had  a  fall  more  desperate  than  we.  Dames. 

What  you  keep  by  j'ou,  you  may  change  and  mend ; 

But  words  once  spoken  can  never  be  recalled.    Eoscomrnmn, 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may : 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying. 

And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to  day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying.  JTerricIt, 


SENTIMENTS    AND  LIFE   THOUGHTS.  195 

Trae  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 

To  man  alone,  beneath  the  heaven. 

It  is  the  secret  sympathy, 

The  silver  ciiord,  the  silken  tie, 

Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind, 

In  body,  and  in  soul  can  bind. 

Truth 
Comes  to  us  with  a  slow  and  doubtful  step; 
Measuring  the  ground  she  treads  on,  and  forever 
Turning  her  curious  eye,  to  see  that  all 
Is  right  behind ;  and  with  keen  survey, 
Choosing  her  onward  path. 

What  is  beauty  ?    Not  the  show 
Of  shapely  limbs,  and  features.    No: 
These  are  but  flowers, 
That  have  their  dated  hours, 
To  breathe  their  momentary  sweets,  then  goj 
'Tis  the  stainless  soul  within 
That  outshines  the  fairest  skin. 

To  die  is  landing  on  some  silent  shore, 

Where  billows  never  break,  nor  tempests  roar; 

Ere  well  we  feel  the  friendly  stroke,  'tis  o'er.  Garth. 

Man  dies;  but  the  immortal  thoughts  of  man, 

The  common  feelings  of  humanity. 

Live  on,  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday.  Bell. 

Yes,  like  the  fragrance  that  wanders  in  freshness. 
When  the  flowers  that  it  came  from  are  closed  up  and  gone, 
Ho  would  we  be  to  this  world's  weary  dwellers. 
Only  remembered  by  what  we  have  done. 

No  marvel  woman  should  love  flowers;  they  bear 

So  much  of  fiinciful  similitude 
To  her  own  history :  like  herself,  repaying 

With  such  sweet  interest  all  the  che'^ishing 
That  calls  their  beauty  and  their  sweetness  forth; 

And  like  her,  too,  dying  beneath  neg  ect. 

Plain  sense  keeps  ever  to  the  road 

That's  beaten  down  and  daily  trod; 

While  Fancy  fords  the  rivers  wide, 

And  scrambles  up  the  mountain-side: 

By  which  exploits  she's  always  getting 

Either  a  tumble  or  a  wetting.  Mrs.  Whitney. 


196  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.  6. 

The  love  of  country !    Time  cannot  efface  it, 
Nor  distance  dim  its  heaven  descended  light; 
Nor  adverse  fame  nor  fortune  e'er  deface  it, 
It  dreads  no  tempest  and  it  knows  no  night. 

We  rise  in  glory,  as  we  sink  in  pride; 
Where  boasting  ends,  there  dignity  begins. 

On  the  world's  stage,  when  our  applause  grows  high, 

For  acting  here  life's  tragi-comedy, 

The  lookers-on  will  say  we  act  not  well, 

Unless  the  last  the  former  scenes  excel.  Denham. 

If  a  wild  uncertainty  prevail, 

And  turn  your  veering  heart  with  every  gale, 

You  lose  the  fruit  of  all  your  former  care. 

For  the  sad  prospect  of  a  just  despair.        Roscommon. 

Cellars  and  granaries  in  vain  we  till 

With  all  the  bounteous  summer's  store. 

If  the  mind  thirst  and  hunger  still : 

The  poor  rich  man's  emphatically  poor.  towl£y. 

She  was  not  fair 

Nor  beautiful ;  these  words  express  her  not; 

But  oh,  her  looks  had  something  excellent 

That  wants  a  name. 
Let  the  tenor  of  my  life  speak  for  me. 
What  is  our  dnty  here?    To  tend 
From  good  to  better,  thence  to  best; 
Grateful  to  drink  life's  cup,  then  bend 
Unmurmuring  to  our  bed  of  rest ; 
To  pluck  the  flowers  that  round  us  blow, 
Scattering  our  fragrance  as  we  go.  Bownng. 

Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past: 

Pains  of  my  age,  yet  awhile  you  can  last: 

Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight : 

Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light : 

Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod : 

Hopes  oi  my  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God.  lacker. 

Beauties  that  from  worth  arise 

Are  like  the  grace  of  deities,  c    77-  . 

Still  present  with  us,  though  unsighted.        S'xcklmg. 
To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good-night, 
And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light  1  l^coa. 


WITTICISMS   AND   FUSSY   SAYINGS.  197 

The  story  of  a  lazy  schoolboy  who  spelled  Andrew  Jack- 
son &  dru  Jaxon  has  been  equaled  by  a  New  York  student 
who  wished  to  mark  a  half  dozen  shirts.  He  marked  the 
lirst  "  John  Jones,"  the  rest  "  do." 

When  Eve  upon  the  first  of  men 
The  apple  pressed  with  S])ecial  cant, 

Oh,  what  a  thousand  pities  then, 
That  Adam  was  not  adamaat. 

A  gentleman  was  complaining  on  'Change  that  he  had 
invested  a  large  sum  of  money  in  stocks  and  lost  it.  A  sym- 
jiathizing  friend  asked  him  whether  he  had  been  a  bull  or 
bear,  to  which  he  replied,  "Neither;  I  was  a  jackass." 

A  blind  man  is  a  poor  man. 

And  blind  a  poor  man  is; 
For  the  former  seeth  no  man, 

And  the  latter  no  man  sees. 

It  was  in  the  smoking-room  of  an  Atlantic  steamer  that  a 
wortliy  Teuton  was  talking  about  weather  forecasts. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I  dell  you  vat  it  is.  You  petter 
don't  dake  no  shotck  in  dem  weather  bredictions.  Dose 
beople  don't  know  noding.    Dey  can't  tell  no  better  as  I  can." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  a  person  present,  "they  foretold 
the  storm  which  we  have  just  encountered." 

"  Veil,  dot  ish  so,"  said  the  Teuton,  contemplatively ;  "  but 
I  dell  you  vat  it  ish.  Dot  shtorin  vould  have  come  yustthe 
same  if  it  had  not  been  bredicted." 

Louise  had  oft  in  youth  been  told. 

She  was  a  matchless  maid ; 
Louise,  good  lack,  has  now  grown  old, 

But  Tnatchless  still,  'tis  said. 

The  following  is  an  old  lady's  description  of  her  milkman  -• 
"He  is  the  meanest  man  in  tlie  world,"  she  exclaimed. 
"He  skims  his  milk  on  top,  then  turns  it  over  and  skims  il 
on  the  bottom." 

"Dear,  cruel  girl,"  cried  T,  "  forbear. 

For  by  those  eyes,  those  lips  I  swear—" 

She  stopped  me  as  the  oath  I  took. 

And  cried  ;  "  You've  sworn,  now  km  the  book." 

It  is  well  to  leave  something  for  those  who  come  after  us," 
as  a  man  said  when  he  threw  a  barrel  in  the  way  of  a  police- 
man who  was  chasing  him. 


198  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.   6. 

Wliy  is  your  nose  in  the  middle  of  your  face?  Because 
it  is  the  center.  (Scenter.) 

What  is  that  from  which  if  you  take  the  whole  some  will 
yet  remain  ?    Wholesome. 

Who  was  the  fastest  woman  mentioned  in  the  Bible? 
Herodias.     She  got  a-head  of  John  the  Baptist,  on  a  charjjer. 

What  letters  of  the  alphabet  are  most  like  a  Roman  em- 
peror?   The  C'sare. 

Why  is  the  vowel  "  o"  the  only  one  ever  sounded?  Be- 
cause all  others  are  inaudible. 

What  is  the  difference  between  a  honey-making  insect 
and  the  man  wlio  lives  on  his  friends?  One  is  a  humming 
bee  and  the  other  a  bumming  he. 

Why  is  a  dandy  like  a  mushroom  ? 

Because  he's  a  regular  saphead. 

His  waist  is  remarkably  slender, 
His  growth  is  exceedingly  rapid, 

And  his  top  is  exceedingly  tender. 

What  is  the  difference  between  an  old  tramp  and  a  feath- 
er bed?     One  is  hard  up  and  the  other  is  soft  down. 

Why  is  a  sneeze  like  Niagara?    Because  it's  a  catarrhact. 

Why  was  Joseph  the  straightest  man  of  old?  Because 
Pharaoh  made  a  ruler  of  him. 

My  first  denotes  company,  my  second  shuns  company,  my 
third  calls  a  company,  my  whole  amuses  a  company.  Co- 
imn-drum. 

What  is  taken  from  you  before  you  get  it?  Your  por- 
trait. 

Why  is  a  windy  orator  like  a  whale  ?  Because  he  oftea 
rises  to  spout. 

When  may  a  man  be  said  to  be  literally  immersed  in  bus- 
iness?    When  he's  giving  a  swimming  lesson. 

Why  are  good  husbands  like  dough?  Because  women 
need  them. 

Why  is  it  impossible  for  a  person  who  lisps  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of  young  ladies?  He  takes  every  miss  for  a 
myth. 

What's  the  newest  thing  in  stockings?    The  baby's  foot. 

What  is  the  plural  of  a  tailor's  goose  ?    Give  it  up. 


WITTICISMS   AND   FUNXY  SAYINGS.  lf;9 

"When  I  grow  up,  I'll  be  a  man,  won't  I?"  asked  a  little 
boy  of  his  mother.  "  Yes,  my  son  ;  but  if  you  want  to  be  a 
man  you  must  be  industrious  at  school  and  learn  how  to 
behave  yourself."  "  Why,  mamma,  do  the  lazy  boys  turn 
out  to  be  women  when  they  grow  up?" 

A  tailor  was  startled  the  other  day  by  the  return  of  a  bill 
which  he  had  sent  to  an  editor,  with  a  notice  that  the 
'  manuscript  was  respectfully  declined." 

Little  Freddie  was  talking  to  his  grandma,  who  was  some- 
thing of  a  skeptic.  "Grar.dma.  do  vou  belong  to  the  Presby- 
terian church  ?"  "  No."  "  To  the  Baptist  V"  "  iNo."  " To  any 
church?"  "No."  "Well,  grandma,  don't  you  think  it's 
about  time  you  was  getting  in  somewhere?" 

A  lady  purchase''  a  nice  new  door  mat  the  other  morning 
with  tne  word  '•  welcome"  stamped  tliereon  in  glowing 
letters,  and  the  first  man  wiio  came  and  pianled  his  number 
elevens  on  it  was  a  tramp. 

"The  bees  are  swarming,  and  there's  no  end  of  them," 
said  the  farmer  Jones,  coming  into  the  house.  His  little 
boy  George  came  in  a  second  afterward  and  said  there  was 
an  end  to  one  of  'em,  anyhow,  and  it  was  red  hot,  too. 

The  man  who  fills  "a  long-felt  void," — The  dentist. 

A  scientific  journal  explaius  in  a  long  article,  "  How  thun- 
der storms  come  up."  We  haven't  read  the  article,  but  we 
know  how  they  come  up.  They  wait  until  the  Sunday- 
school  picnic  reaches  the  grove  and  gets  fairly  to  business 
at  Copenhagen,  swinging,  flirtation,  croquet  ancl  other  inno- 
cent games,  and  then  they  come  up  like  thunder  and  light- 
ning. It  takes  the  average  thunder  storm  not  more  than 
ten  minutes  to  come  up  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  picnic. 

"  Did  you  observe  that  woman  ?"  said  a  gentleman  to  his 
companion,  as  a  sharp-featured  female  swept  haughtily  by 
them.  The  friend  nodded  to  indicate  that  he  had  observed 
her.  "  Well,  I'm  indebted  to  her  for  the  chief  hajtpiness  of 
my  life."  "Indeed;  I  can  imagine  the  gratitude  you  feel 
toward  her."  "  No  you  can't ;  only  her  present  husband  can 
do  that.  Ten  years  ago  I  asked  her  hand  in  marriage,  and 
she  refused  me." 

Philosophers  say  that  closing  the  eyes  mnkes  the  sense  of 
hearing  more  acute.  A  wag  suggests  tliat  this  accounts  for 
the  many  eyes  that  close  in  our  churches  on  Sunday. 


200  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS    No.   6. 

Wife,  just  returned  from  a  shopping  tour :  "  Come  and  see 
what  1  have  got  for  j'ou,  Eugene."  Eugene. — ''Ah, just  like 
you,  darling,  always  thinking  of  me  !"  He  advances  as  his 
wife  removes  the  wrapping  and  exposes  some  tine  drawings 
from  a  neighboring  marble  yard.  Husband  starts  back  and 
exclaims,  excitedly :  "  Gracious,  Laura,  what  did  you  bring 
these  things  here  for?"  Thoughtful  wife. — "  Well,  Eugene,  I 
heard  you  complain  of  feeling  unwell  this  morning  and  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  look  at  some  tomb-stone  patterns." 

If  a  dime  with  a  hole  in  it  is  worth  five  cents,  a  dime  with 
two  h(jles  in  it  ought  to  be  worth  ten  cents. 

A  wicked  man  has  been  getting  a  dollar  apiece  from 
simple-minded  farmers  by  sending  them  through  the  mail, 
for  one  dollar,  a  "  recipe"  to  prevent  pumps  from  freezing 
on  cold  nights.  The  answer  to  the  farmers'  letters  was: 
"Take  them  in  doors  over  night." 

"  I  don't  like  that  cat ;  it's  got  splinters  in  its  feet!"  was 
the  excuse  of  a  four-year-old  for  throwing  the  kitten  away, 

A  gentleman  ordering  a  box  of  candles,  said  he  hoped 
they  would  be  better  than  the  last.  The  dealer  said  he  was 
very  sorry  to  hear  them  complained  of.  "  Why,"  said  the 
other,  "  they  are  very  well  till  about  half  burnt  down,  but 
after  that  they  will  burn  no  longer." 

How  quietly  flows  the  river  to  the  sea.  yet  it  always  gets 
there.  This  is  a  good  point  to  remember  when  you  are 
trying  to  rush  things. 


SUPPLEMENT  TO 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  No.  7 

CONTAINING 

SENTIMENTS  For  Public  Occasions; 

"WITTICISMS  For  Home  Enjoyment; 

LIFE  THOUGHTS  For  Private  Heflection; 

FUNNY  SAYINGS  For  Social  Pastime,  &c. 


b 


Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made : 

One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade; 

The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned, 

The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned.  Pope. 

'Tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  : 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds. 

So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit.  Shakspeare. 

Oh  ye  who  teach  the  ingenious  youth  of  nations, 

Holland,  France,  England,  Germany  or  Spain, 

I  pray  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions: 

It  mends  their  morals,  never  mind  the*  pain.  Bijron. 

Delightful  task !  to  rear  the  tender  thought, 

To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot ; 

To  pour  tho  fresh  instruction  o'er  the  mind, 

To  breathe  the  enlivening  si)irit,  and  to  fix 

The  generous  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast.     Tliomson. 

Envy  not  greatness;  for  thou  mak'st  thereby 

Thyself  the  worse;  and  so  the  distance  greater.       Herbert. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones.      Shakspeare. 

Exam[)lo  is  a  living  law,  whose  sway 
Men  more  than  all  the  written  laws  obey. 

Wrongs  do  not  leave  nffwliere  they  begin, 
But  still  beget  new  mischiefs  in  their  course.        Danid. 

181 


182  ONE   UUNDREI)    CnOICE   SKLECTIONS    No.    7. 

It  is  network  that  kills  men  ;  it  is  worry.  Work  is  healthy ; 
3'ou  can  hardly  put  more  upon  a  man  than  he  can  bear. 
Worry  is  rust  upon  the  blade.  It  is  not  the  revolution  that 
destroys  the  machinery,  but  the  friction.  Fear  secretes 
acids;  but  love  and  trust  are  sweet  juices.  Beechcr. 

If  human  progress  means  anything,  it  means  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  highest  privileges  and  immunities  of  existence 
by  all ;  it  means  a  fair  field  for  every  man  to  pursue  that 
line  of  thought  and  action  which  his  own  individuality 
directs,  and  which,  to  him,  is  the  purpose  of  his  being. 

Stebhins. 

Every  man  has  the  secret  of  becoming  rich  who  resolves 
to  live  within  his  means;  and  independence  is  one  of  the 
most  effectual  safeguards  of  honesty. 

Toil,  feel,  think,  hope.  A  man  is  sure  to  dream  enough 
before  he  dies  without  making  arrangements  for  the  purpose. 

Surling. 

It  is  better  to  be  the  builder  of  our  own  name  than  to  be 
indebted  by  descent  for  the  proudest  gifts  known  to  the 
books  of  heraldry.  Ballou. 

Anger  is  the  most  impotent  passion  that  accompanies  the 
mind  of  man.  It  effects  notliing  it  goes  about,  and  hurts 
the  man  who  is  possessed  by  it  more  than  any  other  against 
whom  it  is  directed.  Clarendon. 

Those  we  call  the  ancients  were  really  new  in  everything. 

Pascal. 

Aim  at  perfection  in  everything,  though  in  most  things  it 
is  unattainable;  however,  they  who  aim  at  it,  and  persevere, 
will  come  much  nearer  to  it  than  those  whose  laziness  and 
despondency  make  them  give  it  up  as  unattainable. 

Cliesterfield. 

Learning  makes  a  man  fit  company  for  himself  as  well  as 
others. 

Friendship  is  supported  by  nothing  artificial ;  it  depends 
upon  reciprocity  of  esteem. 

Nothing  is  more  dangerous  than  a  friend  without  discre- 
tion; even  a  prudent  enemy  is  preferable.  La  Fontaine. 

The  eye  speaks  with  an  eloquence  and  truthfulness 
surpassing  speech.  It  is  the  window  out  of  which  the 
winged  thoughts  often  fly  unwittingly.  It  is  the  tiny  magic 
mirror  on  whose  crystal  surface  the  moods  of  feeling  fitfully 
play,  like  the  sunlight  and  shadow  oa  a  still  stream. 

Tuckerman. 


SENTIMENTS   AND   LIFE  TUOUGHTS.  183 

What  is  this  world !    Thy  school,  O  misery ! 

Our  only  lesson  is  to  learn  to  suffer ; 

And  he  who  knows  not  that  was  born  for  nothing.     Young. 

'Tis  better  to  be  lowly  Iwrn, 
And  range  with   humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  peaked  up  with  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Truth  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again, 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 

But  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain. 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers.  Bryant. 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension; 

And  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 

In  corporal  suiferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 

As  when  a  giant  dies.  Shakspeare. 

Our  early  da5^s!  How  often  back 
We  turn,  on  life's  bewildering  track, 
To  where,  o'er  hill  and  valley,  plays 
The  sunlight  of  our  early  days. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  fiesh  is  grass?    That  earthly  things  are  mist? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams?    And  what  our  hopes, 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows,  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  jn-omise.     Not  a  moment  flies, 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life, 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

Express  thyself  in  plain,  not  doubtful  words. 

That  ground  for  quarrels  or  disputes  affords.      Denham. 

It  is  success  that  colors  all  in. life; 
Success  makes  fools  admired,  makes  villains  honest. 
All  the  proud  virtue  of  this  vaunting  world 
Fawns  on  success  and  power,  howe'er  acquired. 

jyiomson. 
Oh  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 
In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear.  Byron. 

The  world's  a  stormy  sea 
Whose  every  breath  is  strewed  with  wrecks  of  wretches 
That  daily  perish  in  it.  Jiowe. 

Anger  is  like 
A  full  hot  horse,  who  being  allowed  his  way, 
Self-mettle  tires  him.  Sfutkspeare. 


184  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE   SBLELTIONS    No.   7. 

Such  as  have  virtue  always  in  their  mouths,  and  neglect 
it  in  practice,  are  like  a  harp,  which  emits  a  sound  pleasing 
to  others,  while  itself  is  insensible  of  the  music.       Diogenes. 

The  liighest  excellence  is  seldom  attained  in  more  than 
one  vocation.  The  roads  leading  to  distinction  in  separate 
pursuits  diverge,  and  the  nearer  we  approach  the  one,  the 
farther  we  recede  from  the  other.  Bovce. 

The  tones  of  human  voices  are  mightier  than  strings  of 
brass  to  move  the  soul.  Klopstock. 

Disorder  in  a  drawing-room  is  vulgar;  in  an  antiquary's 
study,  not ;  the  black  battle-slain  on  a  soldier's  face  is  not 
vulgar,  but  the  dirty  face  of  a  housemaid  is.  Ruskin. 

Every  one  is  the  poorer  in  proportion  as  he  has  more 
wants,  and  counts  not  what  he  has,  but  wishes  only  what  he 
has  not.  Manilius. 

What  a  fine-looking  thing  is  war!  Yet,  dress  it  as  we 
may,  dress  and  feather  it,  daub  it  with  gold,  huzza  it,  and 
sing  swaggering  songs  about  it, — what  is  it,  nine  times  out 
of  ten,  but  murder  in  uniform  !  Douglas  Jerrold. 

Every  one  has  a  besetting  sin  to  which  he  returns. 

La  Fontome. 

Weaknesses,  so  called,  are  nothing  more  nor  less  than  vice 
in  disguise.  Lavater. 

It  is  far  more  easy  to  acquire  a  fortune  like  a  knave  than 
to  expend  it  like  a  gentleman.  Colton. 

A  willing  heart  adds  feathers  to  the  heels,  and  makes  the 
clown  a  winged  Mercury.  Joanna  Baillie. 

Loving  is  like  music.  Some  instruments  can  go  up  two 
octaves,  some  four,  and  some  all  the  way  from  black  thunder 
to  sharp  lightning.  As  some  of  them  are  susceptible  only 
of  melody,  so  some  hearts  can  sing  but  one  song  of  love, 
while  others  will  run  in  a  full  choral  harmony.  Beecher. 

To  be  furious  in  religion  is  to  be  irreligiously  religious. 

William  Penn. 

Would  that  instead  of  educating  our  young  girls  with  the 
notion  that  they  are  to  be  wives,  or  nothing,— matrons, 
with  an  acknowledged  position  and  duties,  or  with  no  posi- 
tion and  duties,  at  all, — we  could  instil  into  them  the  princi- 
ple that,  above  and  before  all,  they  are  to  be  women — women 
whose  character  is  of  their  own  making,  and  whose  lot  lies 
in  their  own  hands.  Miss  Muloch. 


SENTIMENTS    AND   LIFE    THOUGHTS.  185 

No  man  fears  men,  but  he  who  knows  them  not; 
And  he  who  yhuns  them  may  not  hope  to  know  them. 

Gvethe. 

Men  are  more  eloquent  than  women  made; 

But  women  are  more  powerful  to  persuade.  Randolph. 

Hidden  and  deep  and  never  dry, 

Or  llowing  or  at  rest, 

A  living  spring  of  love  doth  he 

In  every  iiuman  breast. 

All  else  may  fail,  that  soothes  the  lieart, 

All,  save  that  fount  alone; 

AVith  that  and  life,  we  never  part; 

For  life  and  love  are  one. 

If  I  could  find  some  cave  unknown, 

Where  human  feel  have  n.ever  trod, 

Even  there  I  could  not  be  alone, — 

On  every  side  there  would  be  God. 

It  is  a  vain  attempt  * 

To  bind  the  ambitious  and  unjust  by  treaties; 
These  they  elude  a  thousand  specious  ways. 

An  honest  man  is  still  an  unmoved  rock, 
Washed  whiter,  but  not  shaken  with  the  shock, 
Whose  heart  conceives  no  sinister  device; 
Fearless  he  plays  with  flames,  and  treads  on  ice. 

Who  can  cloy  the  hungry  edge  of  appetite 

By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast.  Shakspeare. 

Weep  not  for  him  who  dieth, 

For  he  sleeps  and  is  at  rest. 

And  the  couch  whereon  he  lieth 

Is  the  greeu  earth's  quiet  breast.  ifr.s.  Norton. 

When  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and  illnniines 

the  {)athway, 
Many  things  are   made  clear,  that  else  lie   hidden    in 
darkness.  Longfellow. 

Secret  are  the  ways  of  Heaven, 

Yet  to  some  great  aim  they  tend; 

Often  som«  afiliction  given 

Proves  a  blessing  in  the  end  : 

Let  no  vain,  impatient  gesture 

Question  the  diviner  will. 

But  in  Faith's  immortal  vesture 

Wait  thy  mission — and  be  still.  / 


186  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.   7. 

Peter  Prickle  Prandle  picked  three  pecks  of  prickly  pears, 
from  three  prickly  praiigly  pear  trees:  if  then,  Peter  Prickle 
Prandle  picked  three  ]jecks  of  prickly  pears  from  three 
prickly  prangly  pear  trees,  where  are  the  three  i)ecks  of 
])rickly  pears,  that  Peter  Prickle  Prandle  picked,  from  the 
three  prickly  prangly  pear  trees? 

When  a  twister,  a  twisting,  will  twist  him  a  twist, 
For  twisting  his  twist,  he  three  twines  doth  intwist; 
But  if  one  of  the  twines  of  the  twist  do  untwist. 
The  twine  that  untwisteth  untwisteth  the  twist. 

Thou  wreath'd'st  and  muzzl'd'st  the  far  fetch'd  ox,  and 
imprison'd'st  him  in  the  volcanic  Mexican  mountain  of 
Popocatapetl  in  Cotopaxi. 

Amidst  the  mists  and  coldest  frosts, 
With  stoutest  wrists  and  loudest  hoasts, 
He  thrusts  his  fists  against  the  posts, 
»Aud  still  insists  he  sees  the  ghosts. 

Did  you  say  you  saw  the  spirit  sigh,  or  the  spirit's  eye, 
or  the  spirit's  sigh?  I  said  I  saw  the  spirit's  eye,  not  the 
spirit  sigh,  nor  the  spirit's  sigh. 

He  was  an  nnamial)le,  disrespectful,  incommunicative, 
disingenuous,  formidable,  unmanageable,  intolerable  and 
pusillanimous  old  bachelor. 

Theophilus  Thistle,  the  successful  thistle  sifter,  in  sifting 
a  sieve  full  of  unsifted  Ihistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles 
through  the  thick  of  his  thumb  ;  if  then  Theophilus  Thistle, 
the  successful  thistle  sifter,  in  sifting  a  sieve  full  of  unsifted 
thistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles  through  the  thick  of 
his  thumb,  see  that  thou,  in  sifting  a  sieve  full  of  unsifted 
thistles,  dost  not  thrust  three  thousand  thistles  through  the 
thick  of  thy  thumb:  su(!cess  to  the  successful  thistle  sifter, 
who  doth  not  get  the  thistles  in  his  tongue. 

Round  and  round  the  rugged  rock  the  ragged  rascal  drags 
the  rough  rhinoceros,  through  the  rain. 

That  that  that  that  gentleman  advanced,  is  not  that  that 
that  he  should  have  spoken  ;  for  he  said  that  that  that  that 
that  man  pointed  out,  is  not  that  that,  that  that  lady  insisted 
that  it  was. 

Benjamin  Bramble  Blimber,  a  blundering  banker,  bor- 
rowed the  baker's  IMrchen  broom  to  brush  the  blinding  cob- 
webs from  his  brain. 


WITTICISMS   AND   FUNSY   SAYINGS.  187 

,  A  naval  ofRoer,  for  his  courage  in  a  contest  where  he  had 
^  tost  a  leg,  had  been  preferred  to  the  command  of  a  good  ship. 
In  the  heat  of  the  engagement  a  cannon  ball  took  off  Ids 
wooden  deputy,  so  that  he  fell  upon  the  deck.  A  seaman, 
thinking  he  had  been  wounded  again,  called  out  for  a  sur- 
geon.   "No,  no,"  said  the  captain,  "the  carpenter  will  do." 

All  have  heard  the  Pope-ish  quotation,  "  Fair  tresses  man's 
imperial  race  ensnare,  and  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single 
hair."  We  don't  care  how  great  a  "  beauty"  she  is ;  a  woman 
"  with  a  single  haip"  ain't  sufficient  to  "ensnare"  us.  It  is  a 
bald-headed  exaggeration.  We  prefer  more  than  a  single 
liair  on  our  girl's  head. 

Fitting  erhblems  are  not  always  appreciated.  Tlie  neigh- 
bors of  a  poor  fellow  wlio  died  erected  a  tombstone  to  lus 
memory,  and  placed  above  it  the  conventional  white  dove. 
The  widow  looked  at  it  through  her  tears  and  said:  "It  was 
very  thoughtful  to  }iut  it  there.  John  was  fond  of  gunning, 
and  it  is  an  especially  suitable  emblem." 

.   "  Tommy,"  said  a  mother  to  her  seven-year-old  boy,  "  you 
\'    must  not  interrupt  me  when  I  am  talking  with  ladies.     You 
must  wait  till  we  stop,  and  then  you  may  talk."     "But  you 
never  stop,"  retorted  the  boy. 

It  rains  alike  on  the  just  and  tiie  unjust — and  on  the  just 
mainly  because  the  unjust  have  borrowed  their  umbrellas. 

!  The  true  way  for  a  woman  to  drive  a  nail  is  to  aim  the 
blow  square  at  her  thumb.  Then  she'll  at  least  avoid  hit- 
ting her  thumb. 

"Ed"  writes  to  know  wliether  it  is  safest  to  carry  money 
in  the  pants  or  vest  jwcket.  Money  is  surest  when  it's  in- 
vest-Ed. 

"Oh,  please,    miss,  tlicrc  was  a  young  gentleman  called 
ij  when  you  was  out.     He  didii't  leave  no  card,  miss,  but  I  can 
show  you  who  he  is,  'cause  three  of  his  photographs  are  in 
your  album," 

The  phrase  "He's  a  brick"  originated  with  King  Agesilaus, 
wliK,  on  a  certain  occasion,  ])oiiiting  to  his  army,  said: 
'•  i'iiey  are  the  walls  of  Sparta.     Every  man  there  is  a  brit'k." 

Numerical  impossibility:  "Mary  says  you  can't  come  to 
see  her  any  more,"  said  a  boy  to  his  sister's  admirer.  "  ^Vily 
not?"  "Because  yon  comk;  to  sec?  her  every  evening  now, 
and  how  codld  you  come  any  more?" 


188  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS  No.   7. 

"I  must  say  that  I  verj'  much  dislike  tliis  ostentatious 
furnishinc,"  remarked  the  elderly  Miss  Pringle,  as  she 
looked  about  her  in  the  new  home  of  the  Spankingtons. 
"Now,  look  at  that  great,  elaborately-framed  mirror ;  I  de- 
clare, I  can  see  nothing  beautiful  in  it."  "You  shouldn't 
expect  impossibilities,  Jvliss  Pringle,"  remarked  her  friend. 

"Oh,  you  are  too  self-conscious,"  said  Jones  to  a  young 
man.  "I  self-conscious!"  exclaimed  Adolescence ;  '"lam 
conscious  of  nothing."    "That's  what  I  said,"  replied  Jones. 

Felicia  asked  her  brother  to  buy  a  science  monthly  for 
her  because  it  had  an  article  on  "Ancient  methods  of  flir- 
tation." When  he  brought  it  home  she  said  he  was  horrid 
Rnd  mean  because  it  turned  out  to  be  ou  "Ancient  methods 
of  filtration." 

A  man  was  so  cross-eyed  that  he  put  his  hand  into  another 
J      man's  pocket  and  abstracted  therefrom  a  watch.     Jle  wanted 
to  learn  the  time.     The  Judge  told  him  that  it  would  be 
three  years. 

The  politest  man  in  town  has  been  discovered.  He  was 
hurrying  along  a  street  the  other  night  when  another  man, 
also  in  violent  haste,  rushed  out  of  an  allej'-way  and  the  two 
collided  with  great  force.  The  second  man  looked  mad, 
while  the  polite  man,  taking  off  his  hat,  said:  "  My  dear  sir, 
I  don't  know  which  of  us  is  to  blame  for  this  violent  en- 
counter, but  I  am  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  investigate.  If  I 
ran  into  you,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  if  you  ran  into  me,  don't 
mention  it" — and  he  tore  away  at  redoubled  speed. 

A  countryman  who  had  never  heard  of  a  bicycle,  came  to 
town,  and  when  he  beheld  a  youth  whirling  along  upon  one 
of  those  airy  vehicles,  be  broke  out  into  a  soliloquy  thus  : 
"3tfy '  aiii't  that  queer.  "Who'd  ever  'spect  to  see  a  man 
ridin'  a  hoop  skirt." 

"Ninety  and  nine"  folks  in  the  hundred  make  a  mistake 
when  they  cut  off  a  dog's  tail.  They  preserve  the  wrong 
end. 

"Go  into  the  room  and  bring  that  cake  oflf  the  table,"  said 
a  mother  to  her  son.  "It's  too  dark  ;  I'm  afraid  to  go  into 
the  room."  "Go  right  into  that  room  this  instant  or  I'll  go 
in  and  bring  out  the  strap."  "If— you  bring— out  the— 
strap,"  replied  the. boy,  sobbing,  "bring  the— cake  along— 
too." 


WirrivISMS    AND    FUNNY    SAYINGS.  189 

Wh}'  had  a  man  better  lose  his  arm  than  a  leg?  Because 
losing  Ills  leg,  he  loses  something  "to  boot." 

Why  is  a  vain  young  lady  like  a  confirmed  drunkard? 
Because  neither  of  them  is  satisfied  with  a  moderate  use  ot 
the  glass. 

Why  is  a  postage  stamp  like  a  bad  scholar?  Because  it 
gets  licked  and  put  in  a  corner. 

Why  is  a  short  black  man  like  a  white  man?  Because  he 
is  not  a  tall  (at  allj  black. 

What  class  of  women  are  most  apt  to  give  tone  to  society  ? 
The  belles. 

Wlien  does  a  rogue  think  he  gets  a  drop  too  much?  When 
he  gets  the  hangman's. 

Why  are  people  of  short  memories  necessarily  covetous? 
Because  they're  always  for-getting  something. 

What  is  the  beginning  of  every  end,  and  the  end  of  every 
place  ?    The  letter  E. 

Why  is  life  the  riddle  of  all  riddles?  Because  we  must  all 
give  it  up. 

Why  is  love  like  a  canal  boat?  Because  it  is  an  internal 
transport. 

Why  is  the  toUingof  a  bell  like  the  prayers  of  a  hypocrite? 
Because  it  is  a  solemn  sound  by  a  thoughtless  tongue. 

Whatdid  Adam  first  plant  in  thegarden  of  Eden?  His  foot. 

*Why  is  a  stick  of  candy  like  a  race  horse?  Because  the 
more  you  lick  it  the  faster  it  goes. 

What  is  the  difference  between  an  engine  driver  and  a 
schoolmaster?  One  minds  the  train,  and  the  other  trains 
the  mind. 

Why  is  a  kiss  like  rumor?  Because  it  goes  from  mouth 
to  mouth. 

What  shape  is  a  kiss?    Elliptical.  '  (A-lip-tickle.) 

What  confection  did  tlicy  have  in  the  ark?  Preserved 
pears. 

What  is  the  difference  l)etween   forms  and  ceremonies? 

You  sit  upon  one  and  stand  on  the  other. 

Wiiich  is  the  way  to  make  a  coat  last?  :Makcthe  vest  and 
trousers  first. 

What  word  contains  the  five  vowels  in  order?  "  Facetious." 
2i:a 


190  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.   7. 

In  some  parts  of  the  world  the  days  are  four  months  long, 
and  when  a  lively  buy  of  twelve  years  accompanies  his  par- 
ents to  church  for  the  first  time,  he  thinks  he  has  struck 
one  of  those  days,  sure. 

One  of  the  triumphs  of  the  country  paragraphist  is  a- 
chieved  when  he  succeeds  by  means  of  a  few  amusing  items 
at  the  head  of  his  column  in  luring  us  on  to  reading  an 
advertisement  of  somebody's  best  family  soap. 

When  a  father  discovers  that  his  boy  has  been  using  his 
razor  to  sharpen  a  slate  pencil  with,  his  faith  that  he  is  to 
be  the  father  of  a  President  is  temporarily  eclipsed  by  his 
anxiety  to  interview  the  boy. 

"  Mr.  Jones,  don't  you  think  women  are  more  sensible 
than  men?"  asked  Miss  Smith.  And  Jones,  after  scratch- 
ing his  favorite  bump  for  a  moment  or  two,  said:  "Why, 
certainly  they  are— they  marry  men,  and  men  only  marry 
■women." 

What  perplexes  a  philosophical  man  is  to  discover  how, 
■when  he  is  shaking  carpet,  with  a  little  woman  on  the  other 
end,  she  can  so  exasperatingly  hold  on,  and  shake,  and 
shake,  and  jerk  his  end  out  of  his  hands,  and  call  him  butter 
fingers  and  a  slouch. 

Said  he,  "And  you  love  me  better  than  all  the  world  be- 
side?" "Yes,"  said  she.  "And  you  love  me  better  than 
anybody  else?"  said  he.  "  Yes,  dearest."  "And  you  would 
not  think  any  more  of  me  if  I  was  worth  a  million  dollars?" 
Said  she:  "No;  and  if  I  was  a  rich  heiress  you  wouldn't 
want  to  marry  me  any  more  than  you  do  now?"  "  No,  dar- 
ling." They  were  not  lying,  gentle  reader;  they  were  sim- 
ply courting;  that  was  all. 

An  old  bachelor,  who  died  recently,  left  a  will  dividing 
his  property  equally  among  the  surviving  women  who  had 
refused  him.  " Because,"  said  he,  "to  them  1  owe  all  my 
earthly  happiness." 

A  lady  in  Iowa,  who  is,  unfortunately,  blind,  has  learned 
to  thread  a  needle  with  her  loiigne  and  teeth — and  an  ex- 
change wants  to  know  if  (here  is  "anything  in  the  world 
that  a  woman's  tongue  can  not  do— or  undo?" 

"Science  enumerates  PSS  species  of  orennic  forms  in  the 
air  we  breathe."  Just  think  of  it !  Every  time  you  draw  in  a 
breath  a  whole  zoological  garden  slips  down  your  windpipe. 


WITTICISMS  AND   FUNNY  SAYINGS.  191 

Curran's  ruling  passion  was  his  joke.  In  his  last  illness 
his  physician  observing  in  tlie  morning  that  he  seemed  to 
cough  with  more  difficulty,  he  answered,  "That  is  rather 
surprising,  as  I  have  been  practising  all  night." 

An  author  having  mentioned  that  he  was  about  to  write 
a  work  on  Popular  Ignorance,  his  friend  replied:  "There  ia 
no  man  on  earth  more  tit  to  do  that." 

A  captain  in  the  navy,  who,  on  meeting  a  friend  as  he 
landed  from  his  shij),  boasted  that  he  had  left  his  whold 
ship's  crew  the  happiest  fellows  in  the  world.  "  How  so?" 
asked  his  friend.  "  Why  I  have  just  flogged  seventeen,  and 
they  are  happy  it  is  over;  and  all  the  rest  are  happy  that 
they  have  escaped." 

A  man  asked  another  to  come  and  dine  off  boiled  beei 
and  potatoes  with  him.  "That  I  will,"  said  the  other, 
"and  it's  rather  odd  it  should  be  exactly  the  same  dinner  1 
had  at  home  for  myself,  barrinc/  the  beef." 

"Archimedes,  you  say,  discovered  specific  gravity  on  get- 
ting into  his  bath  ;  why  had  the  principle  never  before  oc- 
curred to  him?"  "Perhaps  this  was  the  first  time  he  ever 
took  a  bath." 

"Did  you  get  that  girl's  picture.  Brown?  You  remember 
you  said  you  were  bound  to  have  it."  "  Well,  not  exactly," 
replied  Brown;  "I  asked  her  for  it  and  she  gave  me  her 
negative." 

An  old  Scotch  lady  gave  a  pointed  reply  to  a  minister  who 
knew  ho  had  offended  her,  and  who  expressed  surprise  that 
she  should  come  so  regularly  to  hear  him  preach.  Said  she : 
"My  quarrel's  wi'  you,  mon  ;  it's  no  wi'  the  gospel." 

A  traveler  of  the  most  familiar  type  to  a  seedy  old  gen- 
tleman in  a  railroad  car:  "But  why,  sir,  do  you  not  answer 
me  wlien  I  address  you?"  "And  you,  sir,  why  do  you  ad- 
dress me  when  I  do  n(jt  speak  to  you?"  (No  more  conver- 
sation.) 

"That  is  i)robably  the  oldest  piece  of  furniture  in  En- 
gland," said  a  colledor  of  antique  curiosities  to  a  friend, 
j)ointing  to  a  veneral)]c-Io()king  table  as  he  spoke.  "How 
old  is  it?"  asked  the  friend.  "  Nearly  four  hundred  years." 
"Pshaw!  that  is  nothing.  I  have  an  Arabic  table  over  two 
thousand  years  ol<l."  "Indeed!"  "Yes,  the  multiplication 
table !" 


192  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS    No.   7. 

An  English  servant  girl  who  liad  returned  from  the  Unit- 
ed States  to  visit  her  friends  at  home,  was  told  that  she 
looked  "  really  aristocratic."  To  which  she  responded ; 
"  Yes,  in  America  all  of  us  domestics  belong  to  the  hire 
class." 

A  party  of  San  Juan  ranchers  made  a  bonfire  of  an  Apache 
Indian,  and  the  coroner's  jury  rendered  a  verdict  of  "over- 
come by  the  heat." 

"  What  a  fine,  protuberant  forehead  your  baby  hns,  Mrs. 
Jones!  Did  he  get  it  from  his  father?"  "No,"  repHed  Mrs. 
Jones,  "  he  got  it  from  a  fall  down  stairs." 

"  How  do  you  keep  out  of  quarrels?"  asked  one  friend  oi 
another.  "Oh,  easily  enough,"  was  replied.  "If  a  man  gets 
angry  with  me,  I  let  him  have  all  the  quarrel  to  himself." 

A  poor  rheumatic  lady  said  to  her  physician — "Oh  doctor, 
I  suffer  so  much  with  my  hands  and  feet!"  "Be  patient 
dear  madam,"  he  soothingly  responded,  "you'd  suffer  a 
great  deal  more  without  them." 

"  But,  Miss  Tompkins,  do  tell  me  now  how  old  you  nre?" 
"  Oh  I  but  I  don't  tell  my  age  any  more.  I  am  just  as  old  as 
I  look— tliere."    "Indeed,  I  thought  you  much  younger." 

An  inebriated  man  was  observed  holding  himself  up  by 
means  of  a  lamp-post  on  a  prominent  street.  This  lamp- 
post had  on  it  a  mail  box,  and  the  man  had  apparently  stood 
there  some  time.  A  reporter  had  occasion  to  pass  the  man, 
and  remarked  :  "  Hello,  there,  what's  the  matter?"  "  Well," 
said  the  man,  "I— hie— put  five  cents  in  the  ibox  here  hali 
an  hour  ago,  and  this  car  ain't  started  yet." 


SUPPLEMENT  TO 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  lo.  8 

CONTAINING 

SENTIMENTS  For  Public  Occasions; 

WITTICISMS  For  Home  Enjoyment; 

LIFE  THOUGHTS  For  Private  Beflection; 

FUNNY  SAYINGS  For  Social  Pastime,  &c. 


Be  slow  in  choosing  a  friend,  and  slower  to  change  him; 
courteous  to  all;  intimate  with  few;  slight  no  man  for 
poverty,  nor  esteem  any  one  for  his  wealth. 

To  tell  thy  miseries  will  no  comfort  breed  ; 
Men  help  thee  most  that  think  thou  hast  no  need: 
Bat  if  the  world  once  thy  misfc^rtunes  know, 
Thou  soon  shalt  lose  a  friend  and  find  a  foe. 

Thomas  Randolph. 
Who  shoots  at  the  mid-day  sun,  though  he  be  sure  he 
shall   never   hit  the  mark,  yet  as  sure  he  is  that  he  shall 
shoot  higher  than  he  who  aims  but  at  a  bush. 

yS^Jr  P.  Sidney, 
Since  every  man  who  lives  is  born  to  die, 
And  none  can  boast  sincere  felicity. 
With  equal  mind  what  happens  let  us  bear, 
Nor  joy  nor  grieve  for  things  V)eyond  our  care. 
Like  pilgrims  to  the  appointed  i)lace  we  tend; 
The  world's  an  inn,  and  death  the  journey's  end. 

Dri/den. 

Pedantry  prides  herself  on  being  wrong  by  rules;  while 

common  sense  is  contented  to  be  right  without  them.  Colton. 

Zeal  and  duty  are  not  slow, 
But  on  occasion's  forelock  watchful  wait.        Milton. 

When  flowers  are  full  of  heaven-descended  dews,  they 
always  hang  their  heads;  but  men  hold  theirs  the  higher 
the  more  they  receive,  getting  proud  as  they  get  full. 

Brrchcr. 
]81 


182  ONE  HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   8. 

After  all,  the  most  natural  beauty  in  the  world  is  honesty 
and  moral  truth.  For  all  beauty  is  truth.  True  features 
make  the  beauty  of  a  face;  and  true  proportions  the  beauty 
of  architecture ;  as  true  measures  that  of  harmony  and  music. 

Shafiesbury. 

How  wonderful  is  death, 

Death  and  his  brother  sleep ! 

One  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

"With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 

When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world ; 

Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful !  Shelley. 

Modesty  is  to  merit  as  shades  in  a  picture;  giving  it 
strength  and  beauty.  Brayere. 

'Tis  no  doubt  jileasant 
Ourselves  with  our  own  selves  to  occupy, 
Were  but  the  profit  equal  to  the  pleasure. 
Inwardly  no  man  can  his  inmost  self 
Discern;  the  gauge  that  from  himself  he  takes 
Measures  him  now  too  small,  and  now  too  great. 
Only  in  man  man  knows  himself,  and  only 
Life  teaches  each  man  what  each  man  is  worth. 

Goethe. 
It  is  with  books  as  with  women ;  where  a  certain  plain- 
ness of  manner  and  of  dress  is  more  engaging  than  that 
glare  of  paint  and  airs  and  apparel,  which  may  dazzle  the 
eye,  but  reaches  not  the  affections.  Hume. 

All  voices  teach 
That  death  is  but  the  mystic  door, 
Wherethro'  glows  life  forever  more, 

We  long  to  reach.  S.  B.  Sumner, 

The  finest  threads,  such  as  no  eye  sees,  if  bound  cunningly 
about  the  sensitive  flesh,  so  that  the  movement  to  break 
them  would  bring  instant  torture,  may  make  a  worse  bond- 
age than  any  fetters.  George  Eliot. 

Who  can  paint 
Like  nature?    Can  imagination  boast 
Amid  her  gay  creation,  hues  like  hers? 
And  can  he  mix  them  with  that  matchless  skill, 
And  lay  them  on  so  delicately  fine, 
And  lose  them  in  each  other,  as  appears 
lu  every  bud  that  blows?  Thomson. 


SEXTIMKNTS    AN'U    LIFE   THOUGHTS.  183 

To  confine  our  studies  to  mere  antiquities  is  like  reading 
by  candle-light,  with  our  shutters  closed,  after  the  sun  has 
risen.  Campbell. 

View  not  the  spire  by  measure  given 

To  buildings  raised  by  common  hands: 

That  fabric  rises  high  as  heaven, 

Whose  basis  on  devotion  stands.  Prior. 

As  prisoners  in  castles  look  out  of  their  grated  wiiidows 
at  the  smiling  landscape  where  the  sun  comes  and  goes,  so 
we,  from  tiiis  life,  as  from  dungeon  bars,  look  forth  to  the 
heavenly  land,  and  are  refreshed  with  sweet  visions  of  the 
home  that  shall  be  ours  when  we  are  free.  Beecher. 

Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  th'  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on  ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home: 

Lead  thou  me  on : 
Keep  thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  way:  one  step's  enough  fur  me. 

/.  77".  Nnrman. 
The  man  of  genius  dwells  with  men  and  witli  nature;  the 
man  of  talent  in  his  study;  but  the  clever  man  dances  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  like  a  butterliy  in  a  hurricane, 
striking  everything  and  enjoying  nothing,  but  too  light  to 
be  dashed  to  pieces.  Hazlitt. 

And  soon,  when  this  life  with  its  waiting  is  over, 
And  night  passes  from  us,  and  day  shall  appear, 
The  light  of  the  Lord  shall  his  glory  discover. 
And  we  shall  then  know  what  we  only  guessed  here. 

Marianne  Farningham. 

No  mere  negations,  nothing  but  the  full  liberation  of  the 
truth  which  lies  at  the  root  of  error,  can  eradicate  error. 

Robertson. 
One  woman  reads  another's  character 
Without  the  tedious  trouble  of  deciphering.  Johnson. 

If  a  man  has  got  any  religion  worth  the  having,  he  will 
do  his  duty  and  not  make  a  fuss  about  it.  It  is  the  emjjty 
kettle  that  rattles. 

Ah  !  who  can  say, — however  fair  his  view 

Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  lie? 

Let  careless  youth  its  seeming  Joys  pursue. 

Boon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful  eye 

The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity.  if.  Khke  White. 


184  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   8. 

A  free  people  must  be  a  thoughtful  people.  The  subjects 
of  a  despot  maybe  reckless  and  gay  if  they  can.  A  free 
people  must  be  serious;  for  it  has  to  do  the  greatest  thing 
that  ever  was  done  in  the  world — to  govern  itself 

Orville  Dewey. 
The  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony ; 
Where  words  are  scarce  they  are  seldom  spent  in  vain, 
For  they  breathe  truth  that  breathe  their  words  in  pain. 

Sluiki^pettre. 

Enthusiasm  is  a  beneficent  enchantress,  who  never  exerts 

her  magic  but  to  our  advantage,  and  only  deals  about  her 

friendly  spells  in  order  to  raise  imaginary  beauties,  or  to 

.improve  real  ones.    The  worst  that  can  be  said  of  her  is, 

that  she  is  a  kind  deceiver,  and  an  obliging  flatterer. 

Filzoshoi-ne. 
When  sailing  on  this  troubled  sea 
Of  pain,  and  tears,  and  agony  ; 
Though  wildly  roar  the  waves  around, 
With  restless  and  repeated  sound, 
'Tis  sweet  to  think,  that  on  our  eyes, 
A  lovelier  clime  shall  yet  arise  ; 
That  we  shall  wake  from  sorrow's  dream, 
Beside  a  pure  and  living  stream. 

He  that  has  too  many  irons  in  the  fire  will  find  that  some 
of  them  are  apt  to  burn. 

The  universal  lot. 
To  weep,  to  wander,  die,  and  be  forgot.  Sprague. 

To  enjoy  life  you  should  be  a  little  miserable  occasionally. 
Trouble,  like  cayenne,  is  not  very  agreeable  in  itself,  but  it 
gives  great  zest  to  other  things. 

For  what  is  life  ?    At  best  a  brief  delight, 
A  sun,  scarce  bright'ning  ere  it  sinks  in  night; 
A  flower,  at  morning  fresh,  at  noon  decayed; 
A  still,  swift  river,  gliding  into  shade. 

Although  a  skilful  flatterer  is  a  most  delightful  companion 
if  you  can  keep  him  all  to  j'ourself,  his  taste  becomes  very 
doubtful  when  he  takes  to  complimenting  other  people. 

Dickens. 
When  a  friend  in  kindness  tries 
To  show  you  where  your  error  lies, 
Conviction  does  but  more  incense, 
Perverseness  is  your  whole  defense.  Swift. 


SENTIMENTS   AND   LIFE  THOUGHTS.  185 

If  we  were  as  careful  to  polish  our  manners  as  our  teeth  ;  to 
make  our  temper  as  sweet  as  our  breath ;  to  cut  off  our 
peccadilloes  as  to  pare  our  nails ;  to  be  as  upright  in  character 
as  in  person  ;  to  save  our  souls  as  to  shave  our  chins, — what 
an  immaculate  race  we  should  become.  Chaijkld. 

Nature  hath  made  nothing  so  base,  but  can 

Eead  some  instruction  to  tiie  wisest  man.  Aleyn. 

Good  looks  are  a  snare,  especially  to  them  that  haven't 
got  'em.  Mrs.  Whitney. 

By  adversity  are  wrought 
The  greatest  works  of  admiration  ; 
And  all  the  fair  examples  of  renown 
Out  of  distress  and  misery  are  grown. 
What  state  should  fall,  what  liberty  decay,  if  the  zeal  of 
man's  noisy  patriotism  was  as  pure  as  the  silent  purity  of  a 
woman's  love.  Buluer. 

The  lessons  of  prudence  have  charms, 
And  slighted  may  lead  to  distress; 
But  the  man  whom  benevolence  warms, 
Is  an  angel  who  lives  but  to  bless.  Bloomfidd. 

A  cheerful  temper,  joined  with  innocence,  will  make  beauty 
attractive,  knowledge  delightful,  and  wit  good-natured.  It 
will  lighten  sickness,  poverty  and  affliction;  convert  igno- 
rance into  an  amiable  simplicity,  and  render  deformity  itself 
agreeable.  Addison. 

My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass, 
Wherein  ray  imaginations  run  like  sands, 
Filling  up  time.  Jonson, 

He  who  is  eager  to  be  a  great  and  noble  man  in  the  future, 
must  in  the  present  be  great  and  noble  in  thought  as  well 
as  in  deed. 

Cowards  are  cruel,  but  the  brave 

Love  mercy,  and  delight  to  save.  Gay. 

In  following  the  history  of  mankind  we  observe  that  in 
proportion  as  nations  cultivate  their  moral  and  intellectual 
powers,  airocious  actions  diminish  in  nrtuibers,  the  manners 
and  pleasures  become  more  refilled,  the  legislation  milder, 
the  religion  purified  from  superstition,  and  the  arts  address 
themselves  to  the  finer  emotions  of  the  mind.       Spurzheini. 

Nature  is  the  glass  reflecting  God, 
As,  by  the  sea  reflected  is  tlio  sini ; 
Too  glorious  to  be  gazed  on  in  his  sphere, 
linn* 


186  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS    No.  8. 

As  land  is  improved  by  sowing  it  with  various  seeds,  so  is 
the  mind  by  exercising  it  with  various  studies.  Pliny. 

Oh!  through  the  world,  where'er  we  roam, 
Though  souls  be  pure,  and  lips  be  kind, 
The  heart  with  fondness  turns  to  home, 
Still  turns  to  those  it  left  behind. 

The  sun  is  the  eye  of  the  world.  Jeremy  Taylor. 

Let  fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  moments  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroj'j 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 

Moore. 
Memory  is  the  cabinet  of  imagination,  the   treasury  of 
reason,  the  registry  of  conscience,  and  the  council-chamber 
of  thought.  Basil. 

Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace; 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace 
More  deeply  than  despair.  Scott. 

True  nobility  is  derived  from  virtue,  not  from  birth. 
Titles  may  be  purchased,  but  virtue  is  the  only  coin  that 
makes  tlie  bargain  valid.  Burton. 

They  that  stand  high  have  many  blasts  to  shake  them, 
And  if  they  fall,  they  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

ShaJiSpeare. 
He  that  studieth  revenge  keepeth  his  own  wounds  green. 

Bacon. 
Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 

To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 

Tlie  silent  grave ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 

Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 

In  one  dark  wave.  Longfellow. 

Known  mischiefs  have  their  cure,  but  doubts  have  none ; 
And  better  is  despair  than  fruitless  hope 
Mixed  with  a  killing  fear.  Thomas  May. 

The  fox  is  very  cunning;  but  he  is  more  cunning  that 
catches  him. 

Home's  not  merely  foursquare  walls. 

Though  with  pictures  hung  and  gilded  : 

Home  is  where  Affection  calls. — 

Filled  with  shrines  the  heart  hath  builded.        Swain. 


WITTICISMS   AND    FUNNY  SAYINGS.  187 

A  girl  wrote  to  her  lover,  "John,  don't  fule  to  be  at  tlie 
singing  school  to  night."  John  replied,  "  In  tlie  bright  lex- 
icon ofyoiuh  (Webster's  Unabridged)  tliere's  no  such  word 
as  fale." 

Tlie  great  Dr.  Jennings,  of  London,  sent  the  following 
lines,  with  a  couj)le  of  ducks,  to  a  patient: 

Dear  madam,  I  send  you  this  scrap  of  a  letter, 
To  tell  you  Miss  Mary  is  very  much  better; 
A  regular  doctor  no  longer  she  lacks, 
Therefore  I  send  her  a  couple  of  quacks. 

"Pat,  my  boy,  we  must  all  of  us  die  once."  The  sick  man 
turned  over  in  a  disgusted  frame  of  mind,  and  replied: 
"  That's  just  what  bothers  me.  If  we  could  only  die  lialf  u 
dozen  times  I  wouldn't  worry  about  thi.'^." 

Never  look  sad  ;  there's  nothing  so  bad 

As  getting  familiar  with  sorrow, 
Treat  him  to-day  in  a  cavalier  way. 

He'll  seek  other  quarters  to-morrow. 

A  clothier  has  excited  public  curiosity  by  having  a  large 
a})ple  painted  on  his  sign.  When  asked  for  an  explanation, 
he  re})lied  :  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  an  apple,  where  would  the 
read^'-made  clothing  stores  be  to  day?" 

He  put  it  thus :  "  My  Mary,  dear, 

When  you're  away,"  said  he, 
"  What  mathematical  figure 

Do  you  suggest  to  me  ?" 
J  gave  the  jiroblem  up  at  once. 

As  too  much  for  my  head ; 
"  Why,  don't  you  see?    'tis  plain  to  me, 

You're  a  Polly  gone,"  he  said. 

"How  profoundly  still  and  beautifid  is  the  night,"  she 
whispered,  resting  her  finely  veined  temjile  against  iiis 
coat-collar  and  fixing  her  dreamy  eyes  on  the  far-off  Pleiades, 
"how  soothing,  how  restful."  "Yes,"  he  replied,  toying 
with  the  golden  aureola  of  her  hair,  "and  what  a  night  to 
shoot  cats." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  my  charming  Sal !" 

A  luver  said  to  a  blue-eyed  gal ; 
"I  W(ni't,"  said  she,  "you  lazy  elf; 

Screw  up  your  mouth  and  help  yourself." 

Long  sermons  are  spoken  of  as  clerical  errors. 


188  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELEtmONS  No.  8. 

The  first  thing  a  young  man  does  on  seeing  a  friend  with 
a  new  hat  on  is  to  take  it  off  and  serenely  try  it  on  his  own 
head.  When  a  young  lady  sees  an  acquaintance  with  a 
new  bonnet  on,  she  just  lifts  her  nose  and  serenely  wonders 
where  the  thing  got  that  fright. 

He  took  her  fancy  when  he  came ; 
He  took  her  hand,  he  took  a  kiss ; 
He  took  no  notice  of  the  shame, 
That  glowed  her  happy  cheek  at  this. 
He  took  to  coming  afternoons ; 
He  took  an  oath  he'd  ne'er  deceive; 
He  took  her  father's  silver  spoons, 
And  after  that  he  took  his  leave. 

The  Massachusetts  papers  are  discussing  the  question, 
"  May  cousins  marry?"  We  should  hope  so.  We  don't  see 
why  a  cousin  hasn't  as  good  a  right  to  marry  as  a  brother  or 
an  uncle  or  a  son  or  a  sister. 

"Oh  spare  me,  dear  angel,  a  lock  of  your  hair." 
A  basliful  young  lover  took  courage  and  sighed. 

"  'Twere  a  sin  to  refuse  you  so  modest  a  prayer. 
So  take  the  whole  wig,"  the  sweet  creature  replied. 

One  afternoon  a  stranger,  observing  a  stream  of  people 
entering  a  church  approached  a  man  of  gloomy  aspect  who 
was  standing  near  the  entrance  and  asked:  "Is  this  a  fu- 
neral?" "Funeral!  no,"  was  the  sepulchral  answer,  "  it's  a 
wedding."  "  Excuse  me,"  added  the  stranger, "  but  I  thought 
from  your  serious  look  that  you  might  be  a  hired  mourner." 
"  No,"  returned  the  man,  with  a  weary,  far-off  look  in  his 
eyes,  "  I'm  a  son-in-law  of  the  bride's  mother." 

What  are  another's  faults  to  me? 

I've  not  a  vulture's  bill 
To  pick  at  every  flaw  I  see, 

And  make  it  wider  still. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  know 

I've  follies  of  my  own. 
And  on  my  heart  the  care  bestow, 

And  let  my  friends  alone. 

An  ignorant  candidate  for  medical  honors  having  been 
thrown  almost  into  a  fever  from  his  incapability  of  answer- 
Uig  the  questions,  was  asked  by  one  of  the  censors  how  he 
would  sweat  a  patient  for  the  rheumatism?  "  I  would  send 
him  here  to  be  examined,"  he  replied. 


WITTICISMS   AND    FUNNY    SAYINGS.  189 

Which  is  the  most  awkward  time  for  a  traiu  to  start? 
12.50,  as  it's  ten  to  one  if  you  catch  it. 

What  is  the  difference  between  a  liglit  in  a  cave  and  a 
dance  in  an  inn?  Oueisja  taper  in  a  Ciivern,  the'ulhtru 
caper  in  a  tavern. 

Why  can  negroes  be  safely  trusted  with  secrets?  Because 
they  always  keep  dark. 

Why  is  a  bride-groom  often  more  exjiensive  than  a  bride? 
Because  the  bride  is  given  away,  but  the  groom  is  often  sold. 

Why  was  Gohath  surprised  when  David  struck  him  with 
a  stoue?  Because  sucli  a  thing  never  entered  his  head  be- 
fore. 

Why  are  doctors  always  bad  characters?  Because  the 
worse  people  are,  the  more  they  are  with  them. 

AVhy  is  a  camel  a  most  irascible  animal?  Because  he 
always  has  his  back  up. 

Why  is  the  world  like  music?  Because  it  is  full  of  sharps 
and  flats. 

AVhy  is  a  one  dollar  greenback  better  than  a  new  silver 
dollar?  Because  when  you  fold  it  you  double  it  and  when 
you  open  it  you  find  it  in-creases. 

When  does  a  man  impose  on  himself?  When  he  taxes 
his  memory. 

Why  are  good  intentions  like  fainting  ladies?  Because 
all  they  want  is  carrying  out. 

Why  is  a  kiss  like  a  properly  divided  sermon  ?  It  requires 
an  introduction,  two  heads,  and  an  application. 

When  is  money  damp?  When  it  is  due  in  the  morning 
and  missed  at  night. 

Why  were  the  brokers  in  the  panic  of  1873  like  Pharaoh's 
daughter?  They  saved  a  little  prophet  from  the  rushes  on 
the  banks. 

Why  is  a  sculptor's  death  the  most  terrible?  Because  he 
makes  faces  and  busts. 

Why  is  an  omnibus  strap  like  conscience?  Because  it's 
an  inner  check  to  the  outer  man. 


190  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTION'S    No.   8. 

Little  Freddie  was  undergoing  the  disagreeable  operation 
of  having  his  hair  combed  by  his  mother,  and  he  grumbled 
at  the  maneuver.  "  Why,  Freddie,"  said  his  mamma,  "you 
ought  not  to  make  sucli  a  fuss.  I  don't  fuss  and  cry  when 
my  hair  is  being  combed."  "  Yes,  but  your  hair  ain't  hitched 
to  your  head,"  replied  the  youthful  i)arty. 

Imagine  the  indignation  of  an  American  boy  in  a  French 
school,  who  in  a  history  class  is  told  how  Lafayette,  the 
great  French  general,  triumphed  in  the  revolution,  assisted 
by  one  Washington. 

"  Is  this  the  front  of  the  Capitol?"  asked  a  newly-arrived 
stranger  of  a  darkey.  "Xo,  sah  ;  dis  heah  side  in  front  am 
de  rear.  Ef  yer  wants  ter  see  de  front  yer  must  go  around 
dar  behind  on  de  udder  side." 

The  witness  before  the  court  was  Mr.  Wood.  "  What  is 
your  name?"  asked  the  clerk.  "  Otti well  Wood,"  answered 
the  witness.  "  How  do  j^ou  spell  your  name?"  then  asked 
the  somewhat  puzzled  judge.  Mr.  Wood  replied:  O  double 
T,  I  double  U,  E  double  L,  double  U,  double  O,  D."  The 
astonished  judge  thought  it  the  most  extraordinary  name 
he  had  met  with,  and,  after  two  or  three  attempts  to  record 
it,  gave  it  up,  amid  roars  of  laughter. 

"Pa,  what  does  it  mean  to  be  tried  by  a  jury  of  one's 
peers?"  It  means,  my  son,  that  a  man  is  to  be  tried  bv  a 
jury  composed  of  men  who  are  his  equals — on  an  equality 
with  him,  so  they  will  have  no  prejudice  against  him." 
"  Then,  pa,  I  suppose  you'd  have  to  be  tried  by  a  jury  of 
baldheaded  men !" 

"So  you  would  not  take  me  to  be  twenty?"  said  a  young 
lady  to  her  partner  while  dancing  a  polka  one  evening. 
"What  would  you  take  me  for,  then?"  "For  better,  for 
worse,"  he  re[)lied,  and  he  was  accepted. 

A  boy  was  asked  if  he  ever  prayed  in  church  and  answered, 
"Oh,  I  always  say  a  prayer  like  all  the  rest  do,  just  before 
the  sermon  begins."  "Indeed,"  responded  the  astonished 
querist,  "  what  do  you  say?"    "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

City  belle  (meeting  country  aunt) :  "Oh,  I'm  so  ghid  to 
see  you!  Come  and  see  us  next  week,  do,  I'm  going  to  have 
a  german  on  Thursday."  Aunt  (with  severity) :  "  Not  I, 
child.  I  don't  want  to  see  any  one  of  the  family  that's 
going  to  make  a  fool  of  herself  by  marrying  a  foreigner." 


WITTICISMS   AND   FCSNY   SAYINCrS.  191 

A  consumptive  looking  man,  lame  and  feeble,  and  carry- 
ing a  pint  bottle  full  of  something,  halted  a  pedestrian  in 
the  street  the  other  day,  and  said:  "I  found  this  bottle  in 
the  corner  there,  and  I  wisii  you  would  tell  me  what's  in  it.' 
The  other  took  it,  removed  the  cork,  and  snufl'ed  in  a  full 
breath.  The  next  instant  he  staggered  against  the  wall, 
clawing  the  air  and  choking  and  gasping,  and  it  was  a  full 
minute  before  he  blurted  out:  "  Why,  you  idiot,  that's  harts- 
horn I"  "Well,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  take  your  word 
for  it  without  extra  insults,"  observed  the  invalid,  in  an  in- 
jured voice.  He  took  his  bottle  and  walked  off  like  a  man 
who  had  been  abused  without  the  least  excuse, 

A  countryman  sowing  his  ground,  two  smart  fellows  rid- 
ing that  way,  called  to  him  witii  an  insolent  air,  "Well, 
honest  fellow,"  said  one  of  them,  "'tis  your  business  to  sow, 
but  we  reap  the  fruits  of  your  labor."  To  which  the  country- 
man replied,  "  'Tis  very  likely  you  may,  truly ;  for  I  am 
sowing  hemp." 

"  Well,  Bridget,  if  I  engage  you  I  shall  want  you  to  stay  at 
home  whenever  I  wish  to  go  out."  "  Well,  ma'am,  I  have 
no  objection,"  said  Bridget, "  providin'you  do  the  &ime  when 
I  wish  to  go  out." 

A  patent  medicine  advertisement  reads  thus:  "When  a 
lethargic  feeling  pervades  your  system,  when  you  have  a 
disinclination  to  move  about,  when  you  have  an  abhorrence 
to  exercise,  your  liver  is  inactive."  This  will  be  glad  ti<lings 
to  many  people  who  have  always  thought  they  were  lazy 
when  they  felt  that  way.  Now  they  will  know  that  it  Wcia_ 
only  their  liver  that  was  inactive. 

They  were  talking  about  the  weight  of  different  individ- 
uals in  a  certaiu  fauiily,  and  the  daughters  young  man,  who 
was  present,  spoke  up  before  he  thought,  and  said:  "I  tell 
you  that  Jennie  ain't  so  very  light  either,  although  she 
looks  so."  And  then  he  looked  suddenly  cons(;ious,  and 
blushed,  and  Jennie  became  absorbed  in  studying  a  chromo 
on  the  wall. 

"  Thnre  is  no  use  of  talking,"  said  a  woman.  "  Every  time 
I  move  I  vow  I'll  never  move  agaiu  ;  but  such  neighbors  as 
I  iiet  in  with!  Seem's  though  they  grow  worse  and  worse." 
"Indeed,"  replied  a  friend.  "Perhaps  you  take  the  wor-^t 
neighbor  with  you  when  you  move."  Au  oppressive  at- 
mo.sphere  prevails  in  that  vicinity. 


192  OKE  HUNDBED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8, 

Two  old  ladies  were  sitting  before  the  fire  engaged  in 
silent  thought.  Finally  one  of  them  arose,  went  to  the 
window,  and  scanning  the  appearance  of  nature  outside, 
said,  "  Betsy,  I  believe  it's  going  to  rain."  "  No  such  tiling," 
returned  the  other;  "the  sun's  shining  and  there's  not  a 
cloud  to  be  seen."  "  Can't  help  that,"  resumed  her  com- 
panion ;  "the  tin  rooster  on  'Squire  Gilbert's  barn  is  p'intin 
straight  toward  the  East,  and  that's  a  sure  sign  of  a  storm." 
Betsy  turned  as  she  said  this,  and  louking  her  square  in  tlie 
face  with  a  conservative  expression,  exclaimed  "Lor  sakes, 
Jane,  how  can  you  be  so  superstitious." 

Dear  Laura,  when  you  were  a  flirting  young  miss, 

And  I  was  your  dutiful  swain. 
Your  smiles  could  exalt  to  the  summit  of  bliss; 

Your  frown  could  o'erwhelm  me  with  pain  : 
You  were  dear  to  me  then,  love,  but  now  you're  my  wife, 

It  is  strange  the  fond  tie  should  be  nearer; 
For  when  1  am  paying  your  bills,  on  my  life, 

You  seem  to  get  dearer  and  dearer. 

A  country  physician  of  limited  sense  and  "  limiteder"  ed- 
ucation, was  called  to  see  Mr.  R.'s  little  boy,  who  was  quite 
ill.  He  gave  some  medicine  and  left,  promising  to  call  on 
the  following  morning.  When  he  arrived  Mr.  R.  met  him 
at  the  gate  and  informed  him  that  the  child  was  convales- 
cent. "Convalescent?"  said  the  doctor,  "  convalescent? 
Then  if  he  is  that  bad  off  you'll  have  to  call  in  some  other 
physician;  I  never  treated  a  case  of  it  in  my  life  I"  and 
witli  that  he  mounted  his  horse  and  departed. 


DEAMATIO  SUPPLEMEIIT 

— TO — 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  No.  5.* 


Price,  furnished  separately,  Ten  Cents. 


A  QUEER  FIT. 


CHARACTERS :— John  Queer,       \  .        .-. 

SAMrEL  Sweeps,  |  ^^«°^  ^he  country. 
Mk.  Isaacs,  a  Jew  Clothier. 
Jake  Sweet,  Mu.  Isaacs'  Salesman  and 
Door  Drummer. 


Scene  I. — Street  i:  front  of  jNIr.  Isaacs'  store — Readymade 
clothing  hanging  on  "dummies"  about  the  door — Jake 
SwEKT  standing  near  door  on  the  lookout  for  customers — 
John  Queku  and  Samuel  Sweeps  at  a  little  distance,  with 
carpet-bags,  etc. 

John — I  wish  we  could  pay  eome  of  these  annoying 
clothing  Jews  back  in  their  own  coin.  I  am  really  out 
of  all  j)atience  with  the  whole  of  them. 

Samukl — Well,  say  Ave  do.  There  is  that  old  spider's 
nest  riglit  ahead  of  us,  who  ])lagued  us  so  much  yester- 
day in  trying  to  force  some  of  his  vile,  ill-fitting  garments 
on  us.  If  we  are  from  the  country,  as  every  one  seems  to 
know  and  which  I  am  sure  is  no  disgrace,  it's  no  reason 
why  we  should  be  subjected  to  such  public  annoyance.  I 
am  of  the  opinion  that  country  pef)ple's  intelligence  and 

*Tliii  Bupiik'iiii-Dt  is  cimipii.-icd  of  Spfcim.-u  I'liges,  takun  direct  from  "Mookl 
I)iAi.o(;UF.8,"  liy  Hpcjf-ial  jxtiiuhhIoii.  All  rights  rcsi-rvfU.  Tlie  coiii]ik'to  book 
conUiinx  :{>f^  piipK  of  original  DialoK'i'H,  Cliara<t»T  SkrtchcH,  Acting  CliarudoB, 
Tableaux,  etc.,  Kuited  U>  various  a^es  ami  to  all  places.     I'lice  81.00. 

■J* 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

means,  at  the  present  day,  compare  very  favorably  with 
those  of  the  city. 

John — Of  course  they  do,  and  I  am  sure  that  city 
people  are  not  subjected  to  such  j^rovokiug  insults,  when 
they  visit  the  country,  as  we  are  when  we  go  to  the  city. 

Samuel — I  have  a  plan  in  my  head  by  which  we  can 
get  some  fun  and  revenge,  both,  out  of  them,  if  we  carry 
it  through  properly.  This  is  Avhat  I  mean,  I  will  be  a 
young  man  subject  to  faiuty  spells  and  fits.  You  pretend 
to  be  my  brother  or  friend,  and  if  they  insist  on  our  going 
in  to  buy,  over  there,  why,  we  will  go  in  and  all  /  want  is 
for  them  to  put  a  new  suit  of  their  clothes  on  me.  Just 
leave  it  to  me,  John,  and  see  what  will  come  of  it. 

John — Very  well.  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean,  and 
I  suppose  you  intend  to  show  them  such  a  Jit  as  they  have 
not  seen  for  many  a  day. 

[John  and  Samuel  saunter  along  lazily  until  they 
arrive  in  front  of  store,  when  they  are  accosted  by 
Jake  Sweet.] 

Jake — Good  day,  gentlemen.  (Shakes  hands  very  cor- 
dially with  John  and  Samuel.)  Very  glad  to  meet  you, 
gentlemen ;  wont  you  step  in  and  look  at  some  goods, 
to-day? 

John — WeP,  no, — not  to-day.  We  do  not  wish  to  buy 
any  clothes  for  the  present,  and  to  trouble — 

Jake — No  trouble  at  all,  gentlemen,  to  show  our  goods ; 
and  if  you  do  not  wish  to  buy  noiv,  why  at  another  time 
when  you  may,  you  will  know  where  to  come. 

Samuel — Say,  Mister  What's-your-name,  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  interrupt  us,  as  we  do  not  wish  to  buy,  and  have 
not  time  to  stop. 

Jake — Only  take  a  moment,  gentlemen,  to  look  in  at 
our  very  extensive  assortment  of  gents',  youths'  and  chil- 
dren's fine  ready-made  clothing — the  largest  and  best,  and 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

by  all  odds  the  cheapest,  Clothing  Emporium  iu  the  city, 
if  uot  iu  the  United  States.  Just  step  right  iu,  aud  Mr. 
Isaacs,  my  partuer,  an  J.Hi-erican  city-sin,  of  whom  our 
city  may  well  be  proud,  will  take  j^leasure  in  showiug  you 
through  our  mammoth  establishment.  (John  and  Sam- 
uel tur7i  to  go  in.)    \_Louder.']    J.^tend  to  the  gentleUE.^  ! 

[  Curtain.'] 


Scene  II.— Inside  of  store — Mr.  Isaacs  coining  forward  to  meet 

John  and  Samuel. 

Mr.  Isaacs — Glad  to  meet  you,  shentlemeus.  Vot 
clozings  vill  you  look  at  to-day,  shentlemeus? 

Samuel — Nothing  at  all,  sir.  We  do  uot  wish  to  buy 
anything,  whatever ;  but  your  partuer  requested  us  to  step 
in  and  look  at  your  establishment,  aud  as  we  are  on  a 
sight-seeing  tour,  we  could  not  refuse  his  kind  invitation. 

Mr.  Isaacs — Shust  so,  shust  so,  sheutlemeus  !  uud  eef 
you  vill  valk  dis  vay,  I  show  you  sometings  dat  vill  make 
your  eyes  vater.  (They  all  three  walk  back,  and  he  takes  up 
a  coat.)  Vat  you  tinks  of  dat  ?  Dat  coats  cost  to  make 
him  shust  dwenty-seveu  tollars,  seex  and  swausy  cents. 
Ve  are  selling  off  all  dis  stock  vot  you  see  to  close  pizness, 
and  dat  coats  I  vill  sell  to  you  for  feeftepn  tollar.  Vot 
you  tink  of  dat,  shentlemens  ? 

John — It's  very  cheap,  no  doubt,  but  we  don't  want 
to  buy ;  and  besides,  my  friend  here  is  so  subject  to  bad 
fits,  that  I  would  advise  you  not  to  detain  us  too  long. 
We  would  prefer  to  look  through,  and  then  go  on  our 
way. 

Mr.  Isaacs — Ve  have  no  troubles  mits  de  fits  bore, 
ehentlemens.  Now,  shust  to  show  vat  fits  dis  coats  vill 
make,  shust  let  me  put  him  on  von  leetle  moment ;  and 
den  eef  you  vauts  such  a  pargaiu  as  you  never  saw,  you 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

can  takes  him  along  for  only  twelf  tollar,  vich  is  less  dan 
half  vot  it  cost. 

John — I  would  rather  you  would  not  put  the  coat  on 
my  friend,  as  we  have  no  time  to  detain  longer. 

Mr.  Isaacs — Shust  von  leetle  moment,  shentlemens,  and 
you  vill  see  such  a  fit  as  never  vas. 

Samuel— (To  John)— I'll  bet  he  does!  {Takes  off 
coat.) 

Mr.  Isaacs — {Helping  on  with  the  new  coat,  xohich  is 
very  long,  and  much  too  large.  Gathers  iip  the  back  with 
his  hand.) — Shust  see  dat  fit,  shentlemens.  Not  von 
wrinkle,  and  sets  as  if  he  vas  made  by  de  tailor  of  de 
king. 

[Samuel  proceeds  to  button  rip  the  coat  to  the  throat, 

and  in  the  meantime  spits  several  times  on  the  dirty 

floor.     Then  he  begins  to  act  strangely,  striking  and 

stretching  himself,  and  assuming  all  kinds  of  queer 

attitudes — very  much  to  the   astonishment  of  Mr. 

Isaacs,  and  the  amusement  of  John,  %vho,  with  an 

effort,  maintains  his  gravity,  and  pretends  to  become 

much  excited  as  Samuel's  contortions  increase.'] 

John — Oh,  sir!  I  fear  ray  friend  stayed  here  too  long — 

and  he  has  been  attacked  with  one  of  his  faiutiug  fits. 

"Will  you  help  me  to  hold  him  ? 

Mr.  Isaacs — ( Trying  to  catch  Sajviuel  by  the  arm,  but 
dodging  to  one  side  as  he  gets  near  to  him,  to  avoid  being 
struck) — Veil,  dis  is  vot  I  does  not  understand,  a'ready. 
Oh,  dat  coat !  Say,  my  shentlemens,  I  tell  you  vot  I  '11 
do — you  shust  take  the  coat  vor  ten  tollar. 

John — {Trying  uifh  mock  anguish  to  secure  Samuel, 
but  always  failing  to  get  hold  of  him.) — Well,  the  coat  may 
be  cheap  enough,  sir,  but  I  don't  like  the  fit! 

[Samuel  falls  to  the  floor,  and  begins  to  tvipe  himself 
over  it,  to  the  great  detriment  of  Mr.  Isaacs'  coaf] 


I 


MODEL   DIALOGUES.  

Mr.  Isaacs — Shust  see  dat  coat !  Vat  vill  I  do  mit  dat 
coat !  I  tell  you  vot  I  '11  do.  Shust  take  the  coat  at 
eight  tollars,  aud  do  u't  go  apout  seeing  uo  sights  iu  my 
sthore  a'ready,  auy  more.     Oh,  dat  coat !  dat  coat ! 

John — We  told  you  iu  the  first  place,  sir,  that  we 
did  n't  want  to  buy,  aud  didn't  even  want  to  come  in  ;  but 
you  forced  us  to,  and  this  is  the  consequeuce  of  it.  I 
think  my  friend  is  getting  better,  and  in  a  few  moments 
he  will  be  himself  again.  We  can  not  buy  the  coat,  which 
has  been  ruined.  (Samuel  gets  up,  looking  a  little  ivild.) 
Mr.  Isaacs — Veil,  how  you  feel  a'ready  ?  (Heljys  him 
to  pull  off  the  coat.)  Shust  see  vot  your  fits  do !  Vot  you 
come  into  my  sthore  fur  all  de  vile?  Now  you  both 
leaves !  You  gooms  in  again,  I  have  policeman  take  hold 
of  you,  and  puts  you  out  mit  your  fits  in  der  sthation- 
houses. 

[John  gathers  up  carpet  bag  and  jjrepares  to  start 

Samuel  breaks  out    into   violent   laughter,  ivhieh 

Mr.  Isaacs  mistakes  for  another  attack  of  the  '\fits.''] 

Mr.  Isaacs — Shake !  Shake !     Goom  mit  me  and  help 

me  put  out  dese  man  mit  de  fits  out ! 

[Enter  Jake  Sweet,  who  takes  Samuel — who  is 
laughing  violently — by  the  collar,  rvhile  Mr.  Isaacs 
pushes  John  before  him.     Exit  all.] 

[  Curtain.'] 

Note.— Very  much  of  the  success  of  this  Dialogue  will  depotul 
upon  the  acting.  Let  it  be  done  naturally,  however.  The  effect  is  as 
often  spoiled  by  an  exaggeration  in  the  manner  of  acting  as  niiieli  as 
exaggeration  in  words. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

TRUSTY    AND    TRUE. 


CHAEACTERS:— Mr.  Soule,  a  Merchant. 
John  Russell,  | 
Frank  Grey,    [  Clerks. 
Amasa  Drew,  j 


Scene  I. — Counting  room.    Russell  seated  at  a  desk,  busy  with  a 

day-book  and  ledger. 

Enter  Drew  and  Grey  unperceived  by  him. 

Russell — (Speaking  to  himself) — There  you  are !  I  've 
conquered  you  at  last.  All  those  long  columns  of  figures 
are  right,  sir !  Now,  John  Russell,  I  think  a  page  of 
algebra  will  get  the  cobwebs  out  of  your  brain.  So  here's 
at  it,  my  boy  ! 

Drew — {Slapping  him  on  the  shoulder) — So,  here's 
your  den,  where  you  hide  yourself,  old  fellow !  What  a 
fool  you  are,  to  work  two  hours  after  the  rest  are  out ! 

Grey — And  now  he  talks  about  algebra  I  I  'd  go  sail- 
ing up  Salt  River,  with  a  sign  over  me,  before  Fd  touch 
an  algebra.  Sure  enough,  what  do  you  stay  here  for  so 
late  o' nights? 

Russell — Well,  to-night  I  stayed  to  do  a  little  work 
for  Mr.  Soule — a  few  figures  that  somehow  would  n't  add 
up  right.  But  I  've  balanced  every  thing  all  straight ;  and 
I'm  glad  of  it.  •  They  were  in  a  snarl,  somewhat,  but  it's 
all  right. 

Drew — And  the  algebra? 

Russell — Oh,  you  know  Mr.  Soule  told  us  the  other 
day  he  must  do  with  less  help  soon.  And  as  I'm  the 
youngest  clerk,  I  expect  to  be  tlie  one  to  be  turned  off.  So 
I  'm  brushing  up  a  little.  Just  to  prepare  for  a  winter 
campaign  of  teaching.     That 's  all. 

Grey — (Putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  looking 
solemnly  at  Russell) — Russell,  how  old  are  you? 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Russell — (Smiling) — Oh,  I'm  almost  eighteen.  Ra- 
ther young,  I  know ;  but  I  taught  last  winter  with  pretty 
good  success.     I'll  do  better  this  year. 

Grey — Well,  I'm  glad  you  aren't  quite  a  hundred. 
A  fellow  'd  think,  though,  to  hear  you  talk,  that  you  came 
out  of  the  ark. 

Dre^v — Looks  arkish,  doesn't  he,  Frank?  "Well,  one 
thiug  /know.  You're  a  fool  to  work  over  your  hours  for 
old  Soule.     He  doesn't  pay  you  extra. 

Russell — I  don't  ask  anything  for  a  little  kindness 
like  that.  Mr.  Soule  is  a  kind,  considerate  employer,  and 
does  a  great  deal  for  us,  you  know.  I  'm  glad  to  do  him 
any  little  favor,  I  'm  sure. 

Grey — Well,  old  fellow,  don't  stay  here  moping  all  the 
evening.  It's  a  splendid  night !  Come  with  us  and  have 
some  fun, 

Russell — What  kind  of  fun  ? 

Grey — Oh,  most  any  thing.  A  liand  at  euchre,  per- 
haps. 

Russell — JNIy  dear  fellow,  I  don't  know  one  card  from 
another.  In  the  ark,  where  I  Avas  brought  up,  cards  are 
non  est. 

Drew — Of  course.  Well,  say  a  game  of  billiards,  for 
variety. 

Russell — I  am  not  going  to  the  billiard-room  again. 
I  confess  to  a  fondness  for  the  game,  but  they  make  it  a 
regular  gambling  operation  ;  and  such  a  set  of  profane, 
half-drunken  rowdies  as  they  get  in.  No,  sir!  I  beg  to 
be  excused.     I  wish  you  would  n't  go,  boys. 

Dkew — I've  no  conscientious  scruj)les,  and  I'm  not 
afraid,     /wasn't  brought  up  in  the  ark,  thank  fortune. 

Russell — Mine  was  a  blessed,  restful,  safe  old  ark, 
thank  Heaven  !  The  memory  oi'  it  bus  been  a  safeguard 
in  many  a  temptation. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Grey — Yes,  yes,  no  doubt !  You  make  me  home-sick : 
for  your  words  bring  to  mind  my  dear  old  home  in  the 
country. 

Drew — There,  boys,  don't  be  spoonies  !  "We'll  just  go 
it  while  we  're  young,  and  have  a  good  time.  See  here, 
Russell,  we  came  in  to  ask  you  to  take  a  sail  with  us  to- 
morrow. There 's  a  party  of  us  going  over  to  the  island — 
it 's  going  to  be  a  splendid  day  ! 

Russell — You  don't  mean  to-morrow !  To-morrow's 
Sunday !     You  've  forgotten.     . 

Drew — Forgotten  !  Just  as  if  it  could  be  any  harm 
for  us  poor  fellows,  who  are  shut  up  within  brick  walls  six 
days  out  of  seven,  to  take  a  sail  on  Sunday ! 

Grey — You  can  go  to  church  twice  and  attend  your 
Sunday-school,  and  then  go.  That  wouldn't  be  bi'eaking 
the  Sabbath. 

Drew — Come,  RusseH,  do  go  just  for  once!  I  tell  you 
Diamond  Island  is  just  splendid  now.     Come! 

Russell — Stop  a  moment.  Let  me  think.  I  tell  you, 
boys,  rd  like  to  go !  I  've  been  in  the  city  ten  months, 
and  all  the  country  I've  seen  is  that  pitiful  little  Common, 
and  the  bit  of  green  in  front  of  my  boarding  house.  I'd 
like  to  go,  if  it  was  right,  but — 

Grey — Hurra !  "  The  man  that  deliberates  is  lost." 
He'll  go.  Drew ;  we  only  want  him  to  complete  our  num- 
ber.    AVe  '11  have  a  gay  old  time. 

Russell — See  here,  boys,  don't  be  too  fast.  Just  let 
me  read  you  a  part  of  my  mother's  last  letter.  (Takes  a 
letter  from  his  breast  pocket,  and  opens  it.)  You  see,  I 
cany  it  next  my  heart.  (Beads:)  "I  hope,  my  child, 
you  will  never  be  tempted  to  spend  any  portion  of  the 
Sabbath  in  a  way  that  your  mother  would  not  approve. 
I  know  you  must  be  lonely  on  that  day,  and  that  you 
must  miss  us  all.     But  do  not  forget  that  day  belongs  to 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

God.  You  can  not  expect  His  blessing,  if  you  do  not '  re- 
member the  Sabbath.'  "  Now,  boys,  you  see  I  sat  right 
down  and  wrote  to  mother  that  I  would  n't  be  tempted  to 
do  any  thing  on  the  Sabbath  that  she  would  n't  like  me  to 
do.     So  you  see  I  can 't  go. 

Grey — Well,  you  needn't  preach  any  more.  We'll 
get  enough  of  that  to-morrow. 

Russell — I  beg  your  pardon,  boys.  I  think  I  never 
intruded  my  opinions  upon  you  before.  But,  honest,  I 
don't  think  it  right  to  go  sailing  on  Sunday. 

Grey — And,  honest,  I  don't — so  there! 

Russell — Oh,  then,  be  true  to  your  conscience,  and 
don't  go. 

Grey — I've  promised,  and  I  must  this  once.  But  it 
shall  be  the  venj  last  time. 

Drew — Hold  your  tongue.  Grey,  and  don't  be  a  fool. 
Russell,  you've  always  been  a  clever  fellow,  never  2:)oking 
your  nose  into  other  folks'  business,  and  you  've  never  "  let 
on"  about  us  fellov^'S  that  don't  think  as  you  do.  I 
respect  you  for  it.  And  now  I  want  you  to  do  us  a  favor, 
will  you  ? 

Russell — Certainly,  if  I  can. 

Drev\^ — Well,  you  can.  Tell  us  Avhere  old  Soule  keeps 
the  key  to  his  boat-house. 

Grey — You  are  not  supposed  to  mistrust  what  we  want 
to  know  for. 

Drew — Oh,  we  want  to  know  just  for  information.  We 
have  inquiring  minds,  you  see.  A  little  curiosity — that's 
all. 

Russell — But  I  do  suspect  your  intentions.  You 
want  to  get  Mr.  Soule's  "  Favorite"  to  go  sailing  with  to- 
morrow. 

Drew — Granted.     He's  a  stingy  old  scamp.     He  wont 
let  his  boat,  and  there  isn't  another  to  be  had,  for  love  or 
2ii 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

money.  All  you  Ve  got  to  do  about  it  is  to  say,  accident 
tally,  where  he  keeps  the  key.  We  know  you  have 
charge  of  it. 

KussELL — (Walking  about,  as  if  thinking,  and  then 
'  speaking) — Can  you  keep  a  secret,  boys  ? 

Drew — Mum's  the  word.  Nobody  shall  ever  know. 
The  rack  could  n't  wring  it  from  us. 

Grey — Oh,  yes ;  we  can  keep  a  secret,  and  we  will. 
Let  us  have  it. 

Russell — So  can  I;  and  so  I  will !  Mr.  Soule  gave 
me  the  care  of  the  boat-house  key.  I  promised  him  I 
would  neither  let  it  go  out  of  my  possession,  nor  tell 
where  I  keep  it.  I  know  you  '11  both  be  offended,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  My  motto  is  "trusty  and  true,"  and  I'll 
stick  to  it  as  long  as  I  live. 

Drew — You're  a  booby,  spooney,  and  coward  !  I  cut 
your  acquaintance  for  ever.  {Goes  out.) 

Grey — (Folloiving  Drew,  takes  Russell's  hand,  and 
speaks  in  a  loiv  voice.) — I  respect  you,  Russell.  I  don't 
blame  you  !     Do  n't  forget  me. 

Russell — Well,  they've  gone.  Heigho!  I've  made 
a  life-time  enemy  ;  but  I  can't  help  it!  I'm  a  booby  and 
a  spooney,  may  be,  but  I'm  not  a  coward.  I  know  I'd 
rather  march  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  than  to  face  such 
music  as  this.  Oh,  dear!  wouldn't  I  like  to  have  some- 
body tell  me  I'm  not  a  booby.  I  wish  somebody  cared 
about  us  poor  stranger-boys.  When  I'm  a  man,  I'll  hunt 
up  all  the  young  fellows,  and  just  let  them  see  that  some- 
body has  an  interest  in  them.  I'll  ask  them  to  church 
and  Sabbath-school  and — ah  I  well !  that's  another  of  my 
fooli?b  aotii<os.  I  suppose  I  must  be  a  little  unfinished  in 
the  upper  story.     I  '11  off  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  [^Exit 

[  Ourtain.'] 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Scene  II. — Place  same  as  before.     Time,  Monday  morning.     Mr. 

Soui.E  sitting  by  a  desk. 

Enter  Russell. 

Russell — You  wished  to  see  me,  sir  ? 

SouLE — Ah,  Russell !  (Extending  his  hand.')  Glad 
to  see  you  so  prompt !  Sit  down  here.  I  waut  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  you. 

Russell — (Taking  a  seat) — Thank  you,  sir,  I've  been 
expecting  this  for  a  week.  I  suppose  you're  about  to 
make  the  change  you  spoke  of.  I  'm  sorry  to  go,  sir,  but 
as  I  'm  the  youngest  clerk,  I  expected  to  be  the  first  one 
turned  off. 

Soule — Yes,  I  am  making  some  changes  in  my  busi- 
ness, and  some  two  or  three  must  be  discharged.  You 
found  the  snarl  here,  (^Laying  hig  hand  on  the  ledger,)  and 
unraveled  it,  I  see. 

Russell — Yes,  sir ;  I  think  it  is  all  right. 

Soule — All  right,  Russell,  and  very  well  done.  Have 
you  seen  Drew  this  morning  ? 

Russell — No,  sir ;  neither  Drew  nor  Grey.  I  won- 
dered where  they  are  to-day.  I  noticed  neither  of  their 
desks  were  filled. 

Soule — Then  you  haven't  heard  the  news? 

Russell — No,  sir !     What  news  ? 

Soule — Frank  Grey  had  his  eye  put  out  last  night,  in 
a  billiard  saloon,  in  a  drunken  quarrel ! 

Russell — Frank  Grey!  Poor  fellow!  You  don't 
mean  to  say  he  had  been  drinking,  Mr.  Soule  ? 

Soule — No,  I  think  not.  He  got  mixed  up  in  the 
quarrel  somehow.  It  is  a  great  pity  he  was  ever  temj)ted 
to  go  there  at  all.  Grey  is  not  very  wicked  yet,  only 
a  little  weak. 

RuasELL — Perhaps  this  may  save  him.  I  hope  so. 
14 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

He's  good-hearted.  Poor  Frank!  Lost  an  eye !  Ho\t 
terrible ! 

SouLE — Yes,  but  it  might  have  been  worse.  If  the 
loss  of  an  eye  will  reform  his  character  and  make  his  life 
useful,  it  will  be  a  mercy,  after  all.  There's  another 
piece  of  bad  news  which  I  presume  you  have  n't  heard. 
Drew  is  in  the  lockup. 

Russell — (Astonished) — In  the  tchere  f 

SouLE — In  "  durance  vile,"  Russell,  on  the  charge  of 
breaking  and  entering. 

Russell — Whose  store?     Can  it  be  true,  Mr.  Soule? 

SouLE — Captain  Nelson's  boat-house.  He  stole  Nel- 
son's yacht,  he  and  some  other  fellows,  and  went  pleasur- 
ing. Nelson  's  angry,  of  course,  and  had  them  arrested 
this  morning. 

Russell — It  is  a  sad  thing !  I  am  very  sorry.  Waa 
Grey  one  of  the  party  ? 

SouLE — No,  he  was  n't.  He  had  a  sick  headache  all 
day,  and  it  is  a  great  pity  it  had  n't  lasted  all  the  evening, 
as  well. 

Russell — Somebody  coaxed  him  off.  The  poor  fellow 
could  never  say  "  no." 

Soule — It 's  a  great  pity.  The  fact  is,  he  is  n't  "  trusty 
and  true."  Very  few  young  men  are.  When  I  find  one 
that  is,  I  consider  him  worth  his  weight  in  diamonds — eh, 
John  ? 

Russell — Yes,  sir ;  I  suppose  so,  sir !  That  is,  my 
parents  always  taught  me  so. 

Soule — Do  n't  blush  so,  Russell,  my  dear  fellow.  I 
did  n't  mean  to  play  eaves-dropper  last  Saturday  night, 
but  I  heard  your  conversation  with  Drew  and  Grey. 
You  have  been  Avell  taught,  and  you  do  your  parents 
honor.  You  shall  not  suffer  for  your  defence  of  me  and 
my  property,  I  assure  you. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Russell — I  only  did  my  duty,  sir.  When  do  you 
want  me  to  leave — to-day  ? 

SouLE — I  do  u't  wish  you  to  leave  at  all. 

Russell — I  thought  you  said — 

SouLE — You  mustn't  jump  at  conclusions.  I  said  I 
was  about  making  some  chauge,  and  I  am.  I  sent  for 
you  to  offer  you  the  clerkship  made  vacant  by  Drew. 
That  gives  you  a  jump  over  four  years,  and  will  more 
than  double  your  salary. 

Russell — O  Mr.  Soule,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  Do 
you  think  I  am  conipetent  to  do  his  work ! 

Soule — I  thinh  so.  That  was  his  work  you  righted  up 
on  Saturday  night. 

Russell — Mr.  Soule,  you  never  can  know  what  you 
have  done  for  us  all — mother  and  sister  and  me.  I  hope 
you  will  never  have  cause  to  regret  your  kindness. 

Soule — I  never  shall,  if  you  continue  trustij  and  true. 
That  is  all  I  ask  of  you.  For  no  man  can  be  that  to  the 
full,  without  being  more — a  true  Christian. 

(He  shakes  Russell's  hand,  and  exits.) 

Russell — (Pinching  himself) — It  isn't  me.  I  must 
be  dreaming.  John  Russell,  the  booby,  spooney,  coward  ! 
O  mother,  it  all  comes  of  your  teaching  !  And  earnestly 
will  I  pray  that  I  be  not  led  into  temptation,  but  ever  be 
trusty  and  true. 

[  Curtain.'] 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 


A  FRIGHTENED   LODGER. 


CHARACTERS:— Hezekiah  Scruggins. 
Alexander  Addison. 
Pat  Mulravey. 
Landlord. 


Scene. — Room  in  a  Hotel. 

Enter  Hezekiah. 

Hez. — Wall,  I  'spose  I'll  hev  tew  stop  here  and  stay 
over  night.  This  ain't  much  of  a  room,  neither,  tew 
put  sich  a  feller  as  Hezekiah  Scruggins  intew.  The 
landlord  sez  as  heow  they  are  awfully  crowded,  and 
'if  another  feller  should  happen  tew  come,  I  s'pose  he'd 
chuck  him  in  along  o'  me.  Neow  I'd  ra5'ther  not  hev 
a  companyun  on  the  present  occasion,  but  I  reckon 
ef  anybody  comes  in  it  will  hev  tew  be  endoored.  I 
'most  wish  I  hadn't  come  tew  this  big  agerculteral  fair. 
It  ain't  nothin'  but  push  and  scrouge  from  mornin' 
till  night.  (Sits  down.)  I'm  most  tarnation  tired.  I've 
been  a  trampin'  reound  all  this  blessed  day,  and 
haven't  seen  nothin'  of  much  acceount  neither.  I 
wish  I  was  tew  hum.  If  I  know  myself  I'll  strike 
eout  fur  that  same  hum  to-morrow  evenin'.  {Noise  oxit- 
side.)  Hullo!  thar's  a  trampin' at  the  door.  I 'spose 
my  pardner  is  a  comin'.  If  I  am  tew  have  a  compan- 
yun, I  hope  he'll  be  a  respectable-lookin'  feller.  (Door 
is  opened,  and  Landlord  ushers  in  Alexander  Addi- 
son.    Hezekiah  rises.     Exit  Landlord.) 

Alex. — Well,  my  friend,  it  seems  that  we  are  to 
lodge  together  to-night. 

Hez. — Yaas,  so  it  seems.     This  ain't  an  awful  good 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

room,  but  I  reckon  we'll  hev  tow  put  up  with  it,  seein' 
as  lieow  all  the  houses  are  so  much  crowded. 

Alex. — I  feel  very  tired,  and  shall  sit  down  to  rest. 
Be  seated,  mj-  friend ;  don't  let  my  coming  disturb  you. 

Hez. — No,  yeou  ain't  disturbin'  me,  not  in  the  least. 
(Aside.)  That  feller's  got  a  quare  look  abeout  him. 
I'm  mighty  'fraid  thar's  somethin'  wrong. 

Alex. — Wh}'  don't  you  sit  down  and  make  yourself 
comfortable?  If  you  have  travelled  around  as  much 
as  I  have  to-day  you  certainly  feel  like  resting. 

Hez. — I  guess  I'll  step  reound  a  spell ;  I  don't  feel 
like  sittin'.  (Aside.)  By  thunder,  I  believe  that's  the 
crazy  man  that  is  a  runnin'  areound.  He  answers  tew 
the  description. 

Alex. — (Goes  to  door  and  lochs  it) — I  guess  I'll  sliut 
out  all  intruders.  That  money-loving  landlord  would 
likely  crowd  a  couple  more  into  this  room  if  they 
should  ask  for  lodging.  Well,  we  are  bosses  now,  Mr. 
• I  forgot  to  ask  j^our  name. 

Hez. — ]\Iy  name  is  liezekiah  Scruggins,  at  yeour 
sarvice. 

Alex. — And  mine  is  Alexander  Addison. 

Hez. — (Aside) — Good  gracious!  I  don't  know  what 
on  airth  I'll  dew.  But  I  must  git  eout  o'  this.  It  '11 
never  dew  tew  stay  here.  He  has  locked  the  door,  and 
one  of  his  crazy  spells  will  come  on  soon.  By  gosli,  I 
don't  know  what's  tew  be  done.  I  am  in  the  third 
story,  and  can't  jump  eout  of  a  window — no  sir!  that 
might  make  a  finish  of  me.  But  I  must  do  somethin' 
soon.     What  an  ugly  eye  he  has ! 

Alex. — (Aside) — That's  a  rascally-looking  fellow. 
He  doesn't  seem  inclined  to  talk,  and  he  goes  around 
as  if  he  wanted  to  do  something  desperate.  I  really 
think  he  is  a  robber  or  a  pickpocket.     The}'  say  there 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

were  plenty  of  them  on  the  fair-grounds  to-day.  I 
wish  I  was  out  of  this. 

Hez. — (Aside) — I  guess  as  heow  I'll  holler.  I'm 
most  afeared  tew  dew  so,  tew,  fur  he  would  immedi- 
ately spring  upon  me.  {To  Alex.)  Yeou'd  better  unlock 
that  door  agin,  hadn't  yeou? 

Alex. — And  why  should  I  unlock  the  door? 

Hez. — (In  a  frightened  tone) — I — I — ^guess  I'll — go 
deown  stairs  agin. 

Alex. — All  right,  you  can  go.  Will  you  come  back? 
(As  Alexander  goes  to  unlock  the  door  he  jmsses  close  to 
Hezekl\h,  who  thinks  he  is  trying  to  catch  hold  of  him. 
Hez.  jumps  to  one  side  and  shouts:) 

Hez. — Murder!  murder! 

A-LV.^.— (Aside) — That's  a  pickpocket;  I  feel  certain 
of  it.  He  is  trying  to  get  up  an  excitement  for  the 
purpose  of  robbing  somebody.  (Advancing  towards 
Hez.)  I  know  your  true  character,  sir,  and  I  have  a 
good  mind  to  knock  you  down. 

Hez. — It's  coming  on  !  It's  coming  on  !  Oh,  what 
will  I  dew?     Good  gracious!  what'll  I  dew? 

Alex. — None  of  your  nonsense,  now  ;  I  understand 
you,  and  if  you  raise  any  more  noise  I'll  give  you  a 
beating. 

Hez. — (Shouting) — Oh,  gracious  !  let  me  eout !  Land- 
lord !     Landlord ! 

Alex. — Stop  your  noise,  I  say.  You  are  a  pick- 
pocket ;  I  know  you  are,  and  I'll  have  you  arrested  if 
you  don't  clear  out. 

Hez. — Oh,  he's  gittin'  wusser  and  wusser  I  I  wish  I 
had  stayed  to  hum.  (Knock  at  door.  Opened  by  Alex. 
Enter  Landlord  and  others.) 

Landlord — What's  the  meaning  of  this  rumpus? 

Hez. — Yeou've  put  a  crazy  man  in  here  with  me. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

It  is  awful.  I'm  scared  tew  death.  He  has  tried  to 
ketch  me.     Oh,  it  is  dreadful !  , 

Alex. — There's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  that,  and  he 
knows  it.  I  am  aware  of  his  true  character.  He  is 
one  of  the  many  pickpockets  that  were  on  the  fair- 
grounds to-day.  Look  out  for  your  pockets !  He  is 
only  trying  to  get  up  an  excitement  to  get  a  crowd 
gathered  around. 

Hez. — That's  allers  the  way  crazy  people  talk.  I 
read  abeout  him  in  the  papers,  and  I've  hearn  people 
talk  abeout  him,  and  he  answers  tew  the  description 
exactly.  I  tell  yeou,  yeou'd  better  look  eout.  He  may 
do  a  great  deal  of  mischief. 

Alex. — {To  Landlord) — Don't  mind  him,  lie  is 
frightened  about  nothing.  I  doubt  not  you  have 
lieard  of  me.  INIy  name  is  Alexander  Addison,  and  I 
Hatter  myself  that  I  do  not  act  very  much  like  a  mad- 
man. 

Landlord — {To  Hez.) — My  friend,  I  think  you  have 
become  frightened  unnecessarily.  And  {To  Alex.)  I 
think  you  wrong  the  gentleman  when  you  accuse  him 
of  being  a  pickpocket.  My  advice  is,  make  friends 
again,  and  sit  down  and  rest  yourselves. 

Alex. — No,  sir ;  I  do  not  choose  to  room  with  a  man 
wlio  has  insulted  me  by  saying  that  I  look  like  a  crazy 
person.     I'll  sleep  in  the  street  first. 

Hez. — Wall,  I  don't  keer  where  yeou  sleep,  but  I'm 
mighty  sartin  yeou'U  not  sleep  with  me.  Yeou  may 
be  all  right  abeout  the  upper  story,  but  I  doubt  it  the 
blamedest. 

Alex. — Be  careful,  greeny,  or  I'll  knock  you  down. 

IfEZ. — Then; !  I  told  yeou  he  warn't  square;  the  fit's 

comin'  on    agin.     Better  git   him    away  as   ({uick   an 

possiljle.  10 

2ii* 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Alex. — Dunce!  I  will  go.  I  don't  wish  to  be  in 
tjie  same  house  with  such  a  scarey  youth. 

Landlord — Stay,  I  think  I  can  accommodate  you. 
And  {To  Pat  Mulravey,  loho  came  in  with  the  Land- 
lord) stranger,  as  you  wanted  lodging,  I  think  I  can 
accommodate  you,  too.  {To  Hez.)  This  gentleman 
came  in  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  will  let  him  room  with 
you  to-night,  and  I  hope  you  will  get  along  smoothly. 

Hez. — {Aside) — He's  a  rough-looking  customer.  (2b 
Landlord.)  I'll  try  and  endoor  him. 

Pat — What's  that  ye  say,  ye  blackguard  ?  Endoor 
me !  Be  the  howly  St.  Patrick,  I  giss  I'll  have  to  do 
all  the  endoorin.  Ye'r  a  mighty  outspoken  chap, 
onyhow,  and  I've  a  mind  to  give  ye  a  tap  on  the  nose 
jist  to  bring  ye  to  yer  sinsis. 

Hez. — I  beg  yeour  parding,  sir;  it  was  a  mere  slip 
of  the  tongue. 

Pat — Well,  be  mighty  careful  not  to  let  yer  tongue 
slip  again  or  be  the  powers  I'll  give  it  a  twist  that  will 
sthop  it  av  slippin'. 

Landlord — It  seems  that  you  can  get  along  together, 
and  so  I  will  leave  you. 

Pat — Niver  fear  about  that,  Mr.  Landlord  ;  we'll  git 
along  first  rate.  This  is  a  nice  enough  feller,  on'y  a 
little  scarey  about  crazy  people. 

lExit  Landlord,  Alexander,  and  others. 

Pat — {Aside) — Be  the  powers,  I'll  give  him  a  scare 
worth  talkin  about.  I'll  act  the  crazy  man  a  dale  of  a 
sight  better'n  that  other  feller  did,  and  if  I  don't  scare 
him  right,  thin  my  name  isn't  Pat  Mulravey.  {To 
PIez.)  Me  name  is  Pat  Mulravey.  And  what  is  your 
name? 

Hez. — Hezekiah  Scruggins,  at  yeour  sarvice,  sir. 

Pat — Hezekiah  Scruggins,  at  ye'r  sarvice,  sir !     Well^, 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

that's  a  mighty  long  name.  I'll  call  ye  Scrooggins  for 
short.  Yez  thought  that  was  a  crazy  feller,  didn't 
yez  ? 

Hez. — Vaas,  I  had  hearn  tell  that  thar  was  a  crazy 
man  loose,  and  I  had  read  abeont  him,  and  as  the 
feller  answered  tew  the  description  I  thought  he  must 
be  the  one. 

Pat — Faix,  I  am  the  crazy  feller — I  im  that,  mesilf. 
I  am  as  crazy  as  iver  Nickey  Mulrooney  was.  Nickey 
Mulrooney  lived  in  the  town  av  Cork  and  was  a  broth 
av  a  boy. 

Hez. — Pooh !  Yeou  air  trvin  tew  frighten  me.  I 
rayther  guess  I'll  not  be  so  much  alarmed  ag'in. 

Pat — (Aside) — I'll  fetch  him  yet,  see  if  I  don't.  (To 
Hez.)  I'm  a  rale  pacible  b'y  until  the  spill  comes 
upon  me  and  thin  I  git  mighty  obstepeevious. 

Hez. — Obstepeevious  !  what  is  that  ? 

Pat — I'll  tell  ye,  sir.  Whin  a  b'y  gits  obstepeevious 
he  can  do  most  onything ;  he  can  fight,  run,  jump, 
knock  fellers  down  and  tear  round  like  the  very  old 
Kick.     I  am  an  Irishman,  sir. 

Hez. — I  supposed  yeou  were.  The  Irish  air  a  clever 
people. 

Pat — Faix,  and  ye'r  right  there,  and  they're  a 
mighty  smashin  set  too  whin  they  get  into  the  smashin 
humor.  That  crazy  Nickey  Mulrooney  I  was  tellin 
yez  of,  he  could  fling  four  or  five  b'ys  out  av  a  third 
story  windy  before  breakfast  in  tlie  marnin,  and  make 
nothin  av  it.  sir.  And  I  tell  ye  he  made  things  sthand 
around  whin  he  got  into  a  bit  av  a  shindy.  Be  the 
l)Owers,  I  feel  mesilf  gittin  a  little  obstepeevious  whin 
I  think  about  it,  and  I've  a  kind  of  a  notion  jist  to  thry 
and  show  3'e  liow  he  made  things  jingle  whin  the 
Kj)hell  was  on  him. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Hez. — Oh,  Mr.  Mulravey,  yeou  needn't  dew  that !  I'll 
take  yeour  word  for  it.  (Aside.)  Good  gracious !  I 
believe  he  is  a  crazy  man.  But  I  don't  like  to  run 
away.  Jemimy  Wiggins  allers  said  I  was*  a  skeery 
feller,  but  I'll  try  and  be  brave  on  this  occasion ;  I'll 
stand  and  face  the  danger. 

Pat — Be  the  powers,  that  snakin  landlord  shan't  git 
in  here  any  more.  He's  an  ugly  blackguard,  onyhow, 
and  I'll  kape  him  from  sthickin  his  nose  into  this 
place. 

Hez. — Oh,  dear!  he  has  locked  the  door.  I  wonder 
if  he  isn't  only  tryin  tew  frighten  me.  But  he  looks 
desp'rit.  (To  Pat.)  Why  did  yeou  lock  the  door,  Mr. 
Mulravey? 

Pat — That  oogly  landlord  shan't  coom  a  walkin  in 
here  jist  whiniver  we  git  up  a  little  breeze.  I'll  larn  him 
better  than  to  do  that.  Faix,  and  I  will.  You  and  me 
may  have  a  bit  av  a  shindy  soon  and  it'll  be  betther 
to  kape  that  blackguard  av  a  landlord  on  the  outside. 
Don't  ye  think  so,  Mr.  Scrooggins? 

Hez. — Wall,  neow,  tew  tell  yeou  the  truth  abeout  the 
matter,  Mr.  Mulravey,  I'd  prefer  to  have  the  door  un- 
locked. 

Pat — And  I'd  prefer  to  have  it  locked,  and  shure  that's 
jist  where  we  differ,  Misther  Scrooggins.  I  feel  about 
as  stlirong  as  a  forty  horse  ingine  and  I  giss  I'll  be  boss 
on  this  occasion.  (Pat  gets  up  on  a  chair  and  crows  like 
a  rooster.)  Whoop!  This  is  better  than  Donnybrook 
fair.  This  is  the  bist  fair  I've  been  at  in  the  whole 
blissid  counthry.  (Shouts.)  Hurra  !  I  want  to  knock 
somebody  down.     Hurra  for  a  bit  av  a  shindy  ! 

Hez. — (Aside) — Oh.  gracious  !  he  must  be  crazy  !  I 
wish  Mr.  Addison  had  stayed  here. 

Pat — Come  here,  me  darlint.  Let  us  have  a  bit  av 
a  jig.     Ain't  yez  a  thripper? 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Hez. — No,  no  ;  keep  off!  I  don't  want  yeou  tew  touch 
me.     Go  and  dance  by  yeourself. 

Pat — Faix,  an'  I  can't  do  that.  It's  agin  the  natur 
of  the  Muh'aveys  to  dance  alone  whin  there's  a  foine- 
lookin  famale  about.  Come,  Miss  Scrooggins,  let  us 
have  a  dance. 

Hez. — Oh,  no,  no !     Keep  off  or  I'll  shout. 

Pat — Shout!  An  what  good  will  shoutin  do,  I'd 
like  to  know.  Faix,  the  landlord  is  down  in  the  first 
sthory  and  ye  might  yill  for  an  hour  and  he  wouldn't 
hear  anything  at  all,  at  all. 

Hez. — I'll  burst  the  door  open  if  yeou  don't  stop 
bothering  me. 

Pat — Burst  the  door  open  !  Ye  blackguard,  ye  can't 
do  that  while  I've  got  an  arrum  on  me  neck  and  a 
liead  on  me  showlder.  Shure  I  could  knock  ye  into 
the  middle  of  Janewary  afore  ye'd  know  what  I  was 
ybout. 

Hez. — (Aside) — Oh,  if  I  was  eout  of  this  scrape  I'd 
start  for  hum  on  the  double  quick.  (To  Pat.)  Can't 
yeou  sit  deown  for  a  while  ?  I  am  tired  and  I  think  yeou 
ought  tew  be  too. 

Pat — Be  two  !  Be  me  sowl,  it's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  be  one.  But  if  ye  bees  tired,  Mr.  Scrooggins,  sit 
down  and  I'll  sit  on  top  av  yez.  There  is  only  one 
substantial  chair  an'  I  wouldn't  be  mindin  me  manners 
if  I'd  sit  on  it  and  let  ye  s<]uat  on  the  flure  by  yersilf 
(In  a  loud  voice.)  Sit  down,  Mr.  Scrooggins,  sit  down. 
D'ye  mind  me  now?  Bedad  if  yez  don't  sit  down  I'll 
sthrike  ye  a  lick  abowt  the  middle  and  knock  ye  clane 
out  av  the  windy. 

Hez. — (kSits  on  floor) — Wall,  I'll  sit  deown  to  accom- 
modate yeou.     I  hope  yeou'll  be  quiet  neow. 

Pat — (Aiside) — Faix,  I've  got  him  purty  badly  scared. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

I  giss  I'd  betther  boost  him  up  a  little  and  give  him  a 
run  around  the  ring.  (To  Hez.)  Mr.  Scrooggins,  git 
up.  Yez*  has  got  to  act  "  Black  Hawk  "  and  I'll  be 
"  Mazeppa  "  and  we'll  tear  round  the  track  jist  as  the 
horses  did  to-day  at  the  fair.     Won't  that  be  fun  ? 

Hez. — (Aside) — Oh,  how  crazy  he  is  !  But  he  doesn't 
seem  disposed  tew  dew  anything  desp'rit,  and  so  I  had 
better  humor  him.     (Gets  up.) 

Pat — Now,  thin,  Mr.  Scrooggins,  yez  may  run  once 
around  the  track,  thin  I'll  set  in  and  go  it  like  lightnin. 
I  giss  it  would  be  betther,  Mr.  Scrooggins,  for  ye  to 
purtind  to  be  ridin  the  Black  Hawk  horse,  and  I'll  be 
ridin  Mazeppa,  and  thin  we  can  holler  at  thim  and 
lick  thim  up  and  make  thim  sthreak  it.  Won't  that 
be  betther,  Mr.  Scrooggins  ? 

Hez. — Yes,  anything  to  please  yeon,  Mr.  Mulravey. 
But  hadn't  yeou  better  unlock  the  door  before  yeou 
commence? 

Pat — Unlock  the  door,  ye  spalpeen ?  No,  sir;  don't 
ye  know  the  horses  might  run  out  av  the  ring  if  the 
door  was  open?  Bedad  an  I  don't  want  the  horses  to 
git  away.  Now,  Mr.  Scrooggins,  ye  are  to  ride  Black 
Hawk.  Git  on  and  make  him  go  his  bist,  and  I'll  be 
afther  ye  in  a  twinklin.  I'll  give  yez  the  word.  Go  ! 
(Hezekiah  commences  to  run  around  the  room.  Pat  stands 
in  the  centre  and  shouts.)  He'p !  Hi !  Git !  Faster,  ye 
lazy  ould  blackguard!  Go  it,  now!  Bedad,  ye  can't 
trot  worth  a  cint.  (Hezekiah  after  running  a  few  times 
round  the  room  stops  almost  out  of  breath.) 

Hez. — I  thought  yeou  was  a  goin  tew  ride  a  boss 
tew. 

Pat — An  so  I  am,  me  darlint.  But  I  want  to  git 
ould  Black  Hawk  perty  well  run  down  afore  I  set  in. 
Now  go  it  again.     (Pat  shouts.     Hezekiah  commences 


>r< 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

to  run  again.)  Git  up,  Black  Hawk,  ye  lazy  ould  black- 
guard !  H'ep  !  Hi !  Git  along !  Go  it !  Limber  out,  ye  stiff 
ould  spalpeen!  Mr.  Scrooggins,  ye  must  holler  at  yer 
liorse  and  purtind  to  be  a  lickin  him.  (Hezeklui 
shouts  and  motions  as  if  whipping  his  horse.) 

Hez.— Hi !  Git  eout !  Wake  up,  Black  Hawk  !  G'lang  I 

Pat — Now,  old  Mazeppa,  we'll  go  in.  (Folloivs  after 
Hezekiah,  shouting)  Hi !  Go  it,  ye  blackguard  !  He'p ! 
Hi !  Git  along  !  Be  jabers  this  is  the  biggest  kind  o' 
fun !  Hi !  Go  it,  Scrooggins  !  I'm  gainin  on  yez !  Hi !  Git 
along,  Scrooggins  !  (Noise  at  door.) 

Landlord — {Speaks  outside) — What  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this  noise  ?     Open  the  door. 

Pat — Don't  mind  him,  Scrooggins.  (They  continue 
running.)  Hi !  Git  along  there,  ye  blackguard  !  Hi ! 
Ho !     Ye'r  comin  in  on  the  home-stretch  now.     Hi ! 

Landlord — (Shouting) — Open  the  door,  I  say ;  o[)en 
it  instantly ! 

Pat — Scrooggins,  go  it!  Ye'r  ould  Black  Hawk  is 
givin  out.  Go  it!  Hi!  Be  the  powers  I'm  going  to 
win  the  race.     Hi ! 

Landlord — (Shouts  again) — Open  the  door,  I  say,  or 
I'll  have  you  arrested.  (They  stop  running.) 

Pat — Scrooggins,  darlint,  the  people  bees  comin  to 
see  the  race.  We'll  let  them  in  an  thin  we'll  go  it 
again.  (Goes  to  open  the  door.) 

Hez. — (Comes  to  front  of  stage) — Oh,  gracious!  Oh, 
dear !  I'm  clean  run  deown.  (Panting.)  I'm  all  eout  of 
breath.    01i,(lear!    (Fat  opens  door.    £'n<er  Landlord.) 

Landlord — What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  noise? 
You  have  alarmed  the  whole  liouse. 

Pat — Faix,  we've  been  havin  a  jolly  time;  it  wiiit 
ahead  av  Donnybrook  fair.  Me  and  Scrooggins  has 
been  ridin  around  the  ring.     He  rid  Black  Hawk  and  I 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

rid  Mazeppa.  Oh,  how  we  did  make  thim  horses  spin. 
We  were  jist  comin  in  on  the  home-stretch.  I  tell  yez, 
that  Mazeppa  is  a  darlint ! 

Landlord — Well,  sir,  I  don't  choose  to  have  my 
room  changed  into  a  race-course.  One  of  you  must 
leave. 

Hez.— (Still  paiiting)— V\l  go]  I'll  go!  I  wouldn't 
stay  here  over  night  for  a  thousand  dollars — by  hokey, 
I  wouldn't ! 

Pat — (Aside) — Be  jabers,  ould  Black  Hawk's  about 
give  out.  (To  Hez.)  Me  darlint,  I'd  like  ye'd  sthay. 
Ye  are  a  spinner  to  run,  and  I'd  like  to  see  ye  go  it 
again. 

Hez. — No  !  no !  I'll  not  stay  !  I'd  as  leave  stay  in 
a  lunatic  asylum.  (To  Landlord.)  Better  look  eout 
for  him;  he's  a  rail  crazy  tick. 

[^Exit  Hezekiah. 

Pat — (Tb  Landlord) — Be  jabers,  that's  a  badly 
scared  b'y.  He  thought  that  other  man  was  a  mad- 
man, and  I  took  a  notion  I'd  be  afther  showin  him 
what  a  rale  madman  was.  . 

Landlord — Yes,  and  you  have  aroused  all  my 
lodgers.  But  I'll  forgive  you  if  you  go  to  bed  and  keep 
quiet  the  rest  of  the  night. 

Pat — Faix,  and  I'll  do  that,  fur  I'm  mighty  tired 
after  batin  old  Sweepstakes. 

[Exit  Landlord. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 


"MIND    YOUR    OWN    BUSINESS.' 


Neighbors. 


CHARACTERS :— Mrs.  Elvira  Higgins, 
Mrs.  Jemima  Whitney, 
Mrs.  Lyme, 
Miss  Slimkins, 
Mrs.  Annie  Barker,  Young  Widow. 
Harry  Woods,  Gentleman  from  New  Orleans. 
John  Brown,  ]  xt  •  i,i 
David  Lake,  j  Neighbors.        • 


Scene  I.— A  room.    Mrs.  Whitney  discovered. 

Enter  Mrs.  Higgins. 

Mrs.  Higgins — I  've  got  au  awful  piece  of  news. 

Mrs.  Whitney — What  ? 

Mrs.  Higgins — The  widder  Barker's  got  a  beau. 

Mrs.  Whitney — You  do  n't  say  so  ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes,  it's  a  fact,  and  what's  more  and 
wuss,  he's  hau'some. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Well,  if  that  doesn't  beat  all!  Her 
husband  isn't  more'n  six  months  dead.  Oh,  what  are  we 
comin'  to? 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes,  it's  awful.  I  thought  I'd  run 
over  and  tell  you  about  it. 

Mrs.  Whitney — I'm  glad  you  come.  Sich  things 
ought  to  be  circumlocuted  throughout  the  land,  and  public 
opinion  will  condemn  and  crush  out  sich  kerryins  on. 

Mrs.  Higgins — But  I  iiaven't  told  you  the  wust. 

Mrs,  Whitney — My  !  there  can  't  be  any  more.  But 
tell  me  all.  Let  me  hear  to  what  extent  the  venomous 
widder  has  gone. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Why  she  actilly  kissed  him  in  broad 
daylight. 

Mks.  Whitney — Goodness  gracious!  Oh,  the  utter 
reeklessucBS  of  that  woman.     Are  you  sure  it  is  true  ? 

10* 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes;  there 's  no  mistake.  John  Porter's 
hoy  (Iriv  the  stranger  up  from  the  depot,  and  when  they 
arruvat  INIrs.  Barker's  hcuse,  that  woman  aetilly  cum  out 
and  kissed  the  man. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Dreadful !     Awful !     Excruciating ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes,  and  it  must  be  looked  into. 

Mrs.  Whitney — I  allers  thought  the  widder  wasn't  as 
partiekelar  as  she  might  be,  but  I  wasn't  prepared  for  sich 
an  overwhelmiu'  shock.    Who  on  airth  told  you  about  it? 

Mrs.  Higgins — Tim  Wheeler's  wife  told  me  not  more  'n 
half  an  hour  ago.  I  thought  I  must  run  over  immedi- 
ately, fur  sich  a  case  of  orful  onfidelity  to  poor  Mr.  Bar- 
ker's memory  ought  to  be  sounded  from  one  eend  of  the 
univarse  to  the  other,  and  the  people  ought  to  rise  in  vir- 
tuous indignation  and  let  the  widder  know  what  the^ 
think  of  her  doiu's. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Yes,  them's  my  sentiments  to  a  T. 
Now  I'd  never  a  thought  of  allowin'  any  body  to  visit  me 
so  soon  arter  my  Samuel — poor,  dear  man — ^was  tuck  away 
from  me. 

IVIrs.  Higgins — ^Yes,  Jemima,  you  have  acted  properly, 
and  although  your  dear  husband  has  been  gone  fur  up'ards 
of  two  years,  yet  you  have  made  no  efforts  to  win  another. 

Mrs.  Whitney — And  I  never  shall  make  no  efforts.  I 
don't  believe  in  the  women  folks  doin'  the  courtiu'.  When 
a  woman  makes  advances  it  tends  to  disgust  the  male  sect, 
in  a  manner,  and  I  never  could  think  of  doin'  so.  Now 
there's  Josiah  Plankerton,  he's  been  a  comin'  here  some 
lately,  but  he  haint  said  nothin'.  I  am  very  well  sitivated 
as  I  am,  but  if  Josiah  should  ax  me  to  be  a  mother  to  his 
seven  little  orphans,  I  should  consider  it  my  duty  to  go 
with  him  and  endeavor  to  be  a  keerful  wife. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes,  Jemima,  that  would  be  perfectly 
proper;   but  when  a  widder  who  hasn't  been  a  widder 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

more'n  six  months,  allows  a  young  feller  with  a  big  mus- 
tache to  come  a  courtiu',  aud  when  she  ruus  out  to  meet 
him,  aud  kisses  him  in  broad  daylight,  then  I  think  the 
matter  ought  to  be  looked  into,  and  soraethiu'  done  to 
ixpose  the  woman's  onfidelity  to  her  departed  husband. 
Indeed,  it  is  a  wonder  poor  Mr.  Barker  doesn't  rise  in  his 
grave  and  visit  her  in  his  windin'  sheet,  and  inform  her 
that  sich  perceedin's  must  be  stopped  without  delay  or  stay 
of  execution. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Now  I  have  missed  my  poor  dead 
and  gone  Samuel's  company  very  much.  Sometimes  I 
feel  sad  and  lonely. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  it  would 
be  perfectly  right  fur  you  to  marry  ag'in. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Yes,  but  sometimes  I  think  I  shall 
remain  forever  as  I  am,  and  then  ag'in  sometimes  I  think 
that  if  Josiah  Plankerton  should  ax  me  to  be  his'n,  I 
couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  refuse.  Somebody  should 
look  arter  his  poor  orphanless  children,  and  I  suppose  it 
is  as  much  my  duty  to  bear  the  burden  upon  ray  poor 
shoulders  as  anybody's,  and  I  shouldn't  endeavor  to  lay 
it  upon  others. 

Mrs.  Higgins — You  are  right;  we  shouldn't  endeavor 
to  shrink  from  no  duty. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Now,  there  was  Eli  Bolton,  he  cum 
over  here  about  six  months  after  my  poor  dead  and  gone 
Samuel  was  tuck  away,  and  he  commenced  a  tellin'  me 
how  young  aud  prepossessin'  I  looked,  and  I  jest  informed 
him  on  the  spot  that  it  war  n't  proper  just  yit  fur  me  to 
listen  to  sicli  remarks  from  an  unmarried  man.  I  also 
told  him  that  he  might  continner  his  visits,  but  I  couldn't 
allow  him  to  H])eak  fur  some  time  to  come.  I  s'pose  this 
offended  him,  fur  he  didn't  come  back  any  more,  and  it 
war  n't  long  till  he  married  that  old  maid,  Peggy  Win- 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

geriey.  Now,  I  don't  think  I  did  wrong  in  sayin'  so  to 
Eli,  because  a  widder  ought  to  have  proper  respect  fur 
her  poor  dead  and  gone  husband,  partickelarly  if  he  was 
as  good  a  husband  as  my  poor  Samuel  was; 

Mrs.  Higgins — {Eising) — Well,  I  must  be  a  goin'. 

Mrs.  Whitney — I'm  sure  you  needn't  be  in  a  hurry. 

Mrs.  Higgins — But  you  know  the  sewin'  circle  meets 
at  our  house  this  afternoon,  and  I  want  to  git  things 
straightened  up.     You'll  be  over,  of  course? 

Mrs.  Whitney — Yes ;  you  may  expect  me. 

Mrs.  Higgins — I  expect  the  widder  Barker  and  her 
beau  will  be  thei-e.  I  intend  to  give  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind,  and  I'll  be  glad  if  you  will  put  in  a  word  occasion- 
ally, and  assist  me. 

Mrs.  Whitney — I  will  do  so.  I  scorn  that  woman 
anyhow,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  make  some  scornful 
remarks.  I  allers  had  an  idee  that  she  was  a  tryin'  to 
hold  herself  above  common  folks,  and  I  have  hearn  tell 
that  she  has  sot  her  cap  fur  the  minister. 

Mrs.  Higgins — I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  I  seed  her 
lookin'  oncommon  pleasant  at  him  last  Sunday,  but  good 
man  that  he  is,  he  didn't  seem  to  keer  fur  her  smiles. 
But  I  must  be  a  goin'. 

Mrs.  Whitney — I  'm  sure,  Elvira,  you  need  n't  be  in 
a  hurry. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Oh,  yes  ;  I  must  go.  I  left  Becky 
Jane  a  makin'  peach  presarves,  and  I'm  afeared  she'll  let 
'em  bile  over.     You  '11  be  sure  and  come  ? 

Mrs.  Whitney — Oh,  yes  ;  sartiuly.  I  would  n't  miss 
the  circle  nohow,  if  the  widder 's  to  be  there. 

lExit  Mrs.  Higgins. 

[  Curtain.'] 


MODEL   DIALOGUKS. 

SCEXE  II. — A  room.     Several  women  seated  around  a  table,  engaged 

in  sewing. 

Mrs.  Higgins — I  s'pose  you  've  all  heard  the  news — 
haven't  you? 

Several  Voices— No  !     What  is  it  ?     Do  tell ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — The  widder  Barker's  got  a  beau. 

Several  Voices — You  do  n't  say  so !  Well,  if  ever ! 
iMy  goodness ! 

John  Brown — Why,  her  husband  hasn't  been  dead 
more'n  six  mouths. 

Miss  Slimkins — Oh,  it  is  dreadful ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — And  it  ought  to  be  looked  into. 

Mrs.  Lyme — I'm  in  favor  of  callin'  a  church  meetin' 
immediately  and  haviu'  the  widder  put  out. 

Mrs.  Higgins — But  I  haven't  told  you  the  wust. 

Several  Voices — You  haven't!  Do  tell!  What 
can  be  worse  ? 

David  Lake — Speak  out,  Mrs.  Higgins,  and  let  us 
know  the  worst, 

Mrs.  Higgins — Why,  she  actilly  flew  out  of  the 
house  and  kissed  the  new  beau  when  he  driv  up  to  the 
house. 

Several  Voices — Good  laud  !     Sakes  alive ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — Yes;  'tis  true,  and  the  new  beau  has 
got  a  big  mustache. 

Mrs.  Lyme — Wuss  and  wuss. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Oh,  it  is  dreadful !  Somethin'  must 
be  done.  Mrs.  Higgins  was  a  tellin'  me  about  it  this 
raornin',  and  I  am  clearly  of  the  opinion  that  the  matter 
ought  to  be  presented  to  the  church  and  some  action  tuck 
upon   it. 

^Irs.  Hi<;(;ins — Fur  my  part  I'm  a  goin'  to  give  her  a 
piece  of  my  mind  when  she  comes  here  to-day.  Sich 
doin's  should  meet  with  scorn  and  indignation. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Enter  Mrs.  Barker  and  Harry  Woods. 

Mrs.  Barker — Good  afternoon,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Allow  me  to  introduce  Mr.  Harry  Woods,  of  New 
Orleans.  (All  bow.) 

Mrs.  Higgins — A  beautiful  day,  Mrs.  Barker. 

Mrs.  Barker — Yes,  a  beautiful  day. 

Mrs.  Higgins — (^Placing  a  chair)^Be  seated,  Mr. 
Woods. 

Miss  Slimkins — (Aside) — He's  a  good  lookin'  feller. 

Mrs.  Barker — We  always  have  a  pleasant  meeting  in 
your  house,  Mrs.  Higgins. 

Mrs.  Higgins — Well,  I'm  glad  you  think  so.  I 
allers  strive  to  keep  myself  respectable.  Can  you  say  as 
nauch,  Mrs.  Barker? 

Mrs.  Barker — Why,  I  am  astonished,  Mrs.  Higgins. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Higgins — Well,  in  the  presence  of  this  company 
1  charge  you  with  havin'  a  beau  and  your  husband  not 
six  mouths  dead.  You  also  actilly  flew  at  that  beau  and 
kissed  him  in  broad  daylight, 

Mrs.  Barker — Oh,  I  understand.  Dear  Harry,  you 
see  we  have  offended  Mrs.  Higgins. 

Mrs.  Whitney — (Aside) — Dear  Harry !  The  brazen- 
faced woman  !  (To  Mrs.  Barker.)  Yes,  and  you  have 
offended  more  than  Mrs.  Higgins.  Indeed,  the  hull 
country  is  a  blushin'  at  your  behavior. 

Mrs.  Barker — Really,  is  this  so?  I  am  sure  I  was 
not  aware  that  I  was  offending  the  good  people  of  this 
neighborhood  by  receiving  a  visit  from  Harry. 

Mrs.  Whitney — And  do  you  say  it  is  no  offence  to 
fly  at  a  man  and  kiss  him  in  broad  daylight? 

Mrs.  Barker — I  say  it  is  perfectly  right  to  kiss  some 
pe^wsV  at  any  time. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

« 

Mrs.  Whitney — Aud  I  s'pose  you  think  it  is  right  to 
kiss  this  feller  whenever  you  want  to? 

]\Iks.  Bai'vKePv — ]\Irs.  Whitney,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  in- 
vidious, but  I  wouhl  like  to  ask  if  you  think  it  proper  to 
kiss  Mr.  Josiah  Plankerton  at  your  gate  in  the  dusk  of 
the  eveninij  ? 

Mrs.  Whitney — {Excitedly) — It  isn't  so?  It  isn't 
so!  I'd  like  to  know  who  seed  me.  I  tell  youit'safal- 
settofication.  {Some  of  the  younger  members  of  the  circle 
laugh.)  Oh,  you  needn't  giggle.  Would  you  believe 
this  base  woman  in  preference  to  me?  Would  you  be- 
lieve a  Avoniau  who  had  a  beau  before  her  dear  departed 
husband  was  six  months  gone,  aud  kissed  him  under  the 
burnin'  noonday  sun  ?  I  actilly  have  a  notion  to  get  up 
and  go  home  in  disgust. 

INIrs.  Higgins — No,  Mrs.  Whitney;  don't  retreat,  or 
they  will  think  that  you  are  conquered.  We  have  sot  out 
with  the  determination  of  holdin'  the  widder  up  to  the 
scorn  of  the  world,  and  let  us  go  forward  in  the  work. 

Mrs.  Whitney — Yes;  you're  right.  I  will  perceed 
to  the  work.  Mrs.  Barker,  you  ought  actilly  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  A  widder  should  conduct  herself 
j)roperly,  and  when  she  fails  to  do  so  the  comn)unity 
should  perceed  to  administer  a  severe  rebuke.  Your 
actions  have  brought  down  upon  you  the  virtuous  indig- 
nation of  the  excited  populace,  and  the  first  thing  you 
will  know  you  will  be  fetched  up  before  a  church  meetin' 
and  you  will  be  expelled  in  disgust  and  renown.  Did 
any  person  ever  hear  of  sich  doin's?  Kissin'  a  man  in 
bniad  daylight  and  him  a  stranger! 

M];s.  Barkku — I  supj)nsc  then  the  difference  between 
your  offence  and  mine  is  that  I  kissed  a  stranger  aud  you 
kissed  one  who  was  not  a  stranger. 

Mii.s.  Whitney— I  didn't!     I  didn't!     I  tell  you  it's 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

a  falsettoficatiou,  aud  even  if  Josiah  did  kiss  me,  we  had 
paid  proper  respect  to  our  dear  departed  parduers  before 
we  forgot  ourselves.  {Some  of  the  ladies  laugh.)  Oh,  you 
needn't  giggle !  I  tell  you  it's  a  falsettoficatiou,  aud  Mrs. 
Barker  knows  it. 

Harry— Perhaps  if  the  ladies  present  were  informed 
as  to  who  I  am,  this  storm  would  subside. 

Mrs.  Higgins— Who  are  you,  anyhow  ? 

Mrs.  Barker— I  thought  I  had  introduced  him. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  Mr.  Harry 
Woods  of  New  Orleans. 

Harry — Annie,  you  had  better  tell  them  all. 

Mrs.  Barker— Ladies,  you  have  meddled  considerably 
with  my  affairs.  I  will  now  explain.  Harry  Woods  is 
my  brother — the  son  of  my  mother  by  her  second  hus- 
band. Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  "  actilly  flew  at  him  and 
kissed  him,"  as  some  of  you  have  expressed  it,  when  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  five  years  ? 

INIiss  Slimkins — Land  of  oceans ! 

Mrs.  Higgins — Goodness  gracious  I 

Mrs.  Whitney — Sakes  alive ! 

Mrs.  Barker — I  would  now  suggest  *^^hat  in  the 
future  you  be  not  so  hasty  in  your  conclusions,  and  that 
you  would  remember  the  excellent  rantt<),  "  3£>nd  your 
own  business." 

[^Curtain.^ 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 


MISS    HIGGINSON'S    WILL. 


CHARACTERS  :—ARETiirsA  Wilder;  Miss  Snivel;  Hester 
Bluestocking;  Agatha  Martin;  Mild- 
weed  Buttermilk;  Raphael  Angleoo; 
Lawyer  Gay. 


Scene — A  parlor  in  Miss  Higginson's  house.    Agatha  dusting 

the  chairs. 

Agatha— Well,  who  'd  ha'  thought  it !  Miss  INIehit- 
able  has  walked  otf  the  stage,  and  here's  everybody  aud 
more  too  comiug  to  hear  her  Will  read.  I  notice  they're 
all  precious  foud  of  her  just  now,  though  they  let  her 
i)rctty  much  alone  when  she  was  alive.  {Knocking.)  I 
reckon  there's  one  »f  the  vultures  ;  it's  about  time. 

\_Gocs  to   the  door  and  admits  Miss    Snivel   and 
Aretiiusa.] 

Arethusa — Ah,  ray  good  girl,  I  suppose  you  recognize 
rae.  I  am  jNIiss  Arethusa  Wilder,  the  nearest  relative  of 
our  dear  friend  who  has  lately  departed. 

Agatha — {Aside) — Yes,  mini,  I  know  j/ottlike  a  book. 

Miss  Snivel — Ah,  "  this  life  is  all  a  fleeting  show  !  " 
Who'd  have  thought  that  Mehitable  would  have  been  cut 
off  ift  her  prime  ?  She  was  like  a  rose  full  blown,  and  the 
frost,  I  might  say,  nipped  it. 

Arethusa — Very  true,  indeed,  dear  Miss  Snivel ;  though 
I  must  say,  she  never  suited  me  on  the  subject  of  cap- 
strings.  It  is  a  lamentable  fact  that  she  was  wearing  at 
her  sudden  departure  a  headgear  with  yellow  ribbons. 

Miss  Snivel — Ah,  Arethusa,  what  are  cap-strings  and 
such  vanities?  We  live  in  a  vale  of  tears,  and  our  mortal 
frames  arc  but  hindrances. 

AfiATHA — (A.nde) — She  takes  precious  care  of  her 
mortal  frame  ;  she  wont  even  stir  out  of  doors  when  it 
rains. 

2k  K 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Arethusa — My  good  woman,  (to  Agatha,)  you  were, 
if  I  mistake  not,  our  dear  friend's  lady  in  waiting. 

Agatha — I  was  her  servant,  miss,  if  that 's  what  you 
mean;  I  don't  understand  French. 

Arethusa — Ah,  and  probably  you  know  more  than 
you  're  willing  to  tell  about  the  state  of  her  mind — ahem  ! 
— in  regard  to  her  property,  etc. 

Agatha — I  haven't  lived  a  dozen  years  in  the  house 
without  learning  a  little. 

Arethusa — Just  as  I  supposed.  And  perhaps  you  'd 
not  be  unwilling  for  a  slight  compensation — 

Agatha — I  never  tell  secrets,  miss ;  not  for  bribes, 
leastways. 

Arethusa — (  Turning  away) — A  low-born  rustic !  She 
evidently  does  not  understand  the  customs  of  Parisian 
society.  And  (apjjlijing  her  eye-glass)  now  that  I  notice 
her,  she  really  has  a  green  goion.     Highly  unbecoming. 

Miss  Snivel — Ah,  Arethusa,  my  mind  is  filled  with 
thoughts  that  are  bitter  as  wormwood.  I  think  of  the 
days  when  Mehitable  Higginson  said  to  me :  "  Sarah 
Snivel,  we  are  all  sinners,  and  you  're  the  most  artful  of 
them  all."  I  forgave  her  then,  I  forgive  her  now,  but  I 
can't  say  that  I  don't  think  of  it. 

Agatha — (Aside) — What  magnanimity  !  Perhaps  she 
expects  a  compensation  to  the  tune  of  a  few  thousands. , 

Miss  Snivel — I  feel  as  if  Mehitable  Hiffe-inson  was  a 
looking  down  from  the  clouds,  and  saying :  "  Sarah  Snivel, 
bless  you."  (She  hides  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.) 

Enter  Mildweed   Buttermilk  and  Hester  Blue- 
stocking. 

Hester — I  protest,  Mr.  Buttermilk,  the  poems  of 
Juliana  Flayemalive  strike  me  as  much  more  calculated 
to  thrill  the  hearts  of  mankind. 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 


MiLDWEED — Bv  no  means,  Miss  Bluestockinsr.     What 
can  equal  these  soul-stirring  lines  of  M.  I.  H.  P.  Hugger- 


musrsrer? 


"  The  cat  went  up  a  tree, 
He  squinted  at  the  bee; 
An  artful  lover,  he  ! " 

In  fancy,  I  see  that  feline  quadruped  mounting  the  um- 
brageous tree,  looking  furtively  at  the  droning  bee,  who 
flies  from  flower  to  flower.     Oh,  what  a  picture  !  " 

Hester — But  then  in  my  opinion  nothing  can  rival 
that  stanza  '■  To  a  Bug  :  " 

"  Oh,  darling  bug, 
Upon  my  rug. 
Thee  woukl  I  hug  I  " 

What  pathos!  " hugrjing  a  bug  !  "  Ah,  I  beg  pardon,  my 
dear  Miss  Arethusa  !  Miss  Snivel !  (^TJieij  all  shake  hands 
and  sit  doivnS)  Oh,  what  a  shock  my  nerves  have  re- 
ceived !     Who  is  that  vulgar  woman,  dusting  ? 

Arethusa — You  speak  with  truth.  Miss  Bluestocking; 
she  is  not  one  of  the  elite.  In  fact,  she  works  for  pecuniary 
consideration. 

MiLDWEED — I  thought  so.  She  calls  to  my  mind  those 
unique  lines  of  Jeremiali  Jones,  beginning 

"  A  common  flower, 
Not  born  in  a  bower." 

Hester — The  quotation  is  apt ;  I've  wept  over  it  many 
times. 

]\[iss  Snivel — The  tears  of  this  world  are  many,  the 
laughter  is  small.  I 've  often  been  led  to  think  that  life 
has  not  that  value  which  has  been  ascribed  to  it. 

Aretitussa — There  are  certainly  many  things  that  are 
not  as  we  would  wish  them.  I  purchased  a  new  muslin 
yesterdav,  and  found  to  my  dismay  that  there  was  a  t^jjot 
a,"  large  rw  fhc  fije  of  a  needle  on  the  eleventh  breadth. 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

Hester — Aud  I,  in  the  work  of  construing  seven  hun. 
dred  aud  sixty-nine  lines  of  Homer,  found  it  utterly  im- 
possible to  find  the  meaning  of  a  certain  word.  I  was  in 
despair. 

MiLDWEED — Still  if  our  worthy  friend,  Miss  Higgin- 
son — 

Aketiiusa — {Aside) — If  she  leaves  her  property  to  me, 
as  she  is  certain  to  do,  I  will  eclipse  all  rivals  at  Mrs. 
Jimjam's  party. 

Miss  Snivel — (Aside) — If  I  get  the  money,  I  will  have 
ray  handkerchiefs  marked  with  black  stripes  five  inches 
and  a  half  broad. 

(Knocking.     Agatha  admits  Raphael  Angleoo-) 

Raphael — I've  left  my  great  picture  of  "  The  Soul  in 
Despair,  or  The  Blackberry  Hollow,"  and  come  to  pay 
my  respects. 

Agatha — (Aside) — His  respects  to  the  Will,  perhaps. 
He  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home. 

Raphael — You  offend  my  sense  of  vision,  good  woman. 
Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  remove  yourself  from  my 
presence  ?     You  do  not  aflford  an  attractive  picture. 

Agatha — Attractive  or  not,  I  believe  I  shall  stay  and 
hear  the  Will. 

Raphael — Ah,  ladies!  ah,  Mi\  Buttermilk!  we  are 
here  on  a  most  sad  errand. 

Miss  Snivel — Sad,  indeed !  You  never  said  a  truei 
word. 

Raphael — I  picture  Miss  Higginson  in  her  prime  ;  I 
picture  her  when  she  sported  among  the  heather  ;  I  picture 
her  as  a  babe — 

Agatha — You  've  got  a  very  fertile  mind,  I  think,  sir. 
You  must  have  been  rather  small  in  those  days. 

!Mildweeb — The  matter  of  fact  element  in  that  girl  is 
distressing.    How  could  Miss  Higginson  have  endured  her  ? 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

Hester— How,  indeed  !  But  our  friend  was  a  rough 
diamond,  she  had  peculiarities  of  nuinuer. 

Agatha — (Aside) — Ah,  that  she  had  !  She  despised 
every  oue  of  you,  and  rated  you  at  just  what  you  were 
worth. 

Raphael— As  I  was  saying,  I  picture  her  as  a  child  ;  I 
now  picture  her,  I  might  say,  in  her  grave. 

Miss  Snivel — Oh,  and  to  think  of  the  number  of  times 
she  and  I  have  made  sage  tea  together  !  Once  she  gave  it  to 
Molly  Parsons ;  I  told  her  it  would  do  no  good.  But  our 
friend  had  a  will  of  her  own. 

Aeethusa — That  she  had.  And  yet  I  always  loved  it 
— even  when  she  told  me  I  was  "  a  vain  chit  and  fond  of 
furbelows !  " 

Raphael — She  has  often  reminded  me  of  a  picture 
I  have  seen,  "  Patience  on  a  Broomstick."  It  is  very 
touching. 

Agatha — (Aside) — I  should  think  it  would  be  ! 

Mildw^eed — I  have  written  a  little  poem  about  our 
friend.     If  you  would  like  to  hear  it — ahem  !  ah  ! 

Hester — Oh,  pray  read  it!  I'm  passionately  fond  of 
poetry  ;  it  is  so  ethereal. 

Mildweed — I  have  a  bad  cold,  (clearing  his  throat,)  a 
terrible  cold ! 

Miss  Snivel — I  recommend  Shagbark  Bitters ;  they 
cured  Hannah  Haines. 

Mildweed — Still,  if  you'd  really  like  to  hear  it,  I  will 

read  it.     It  has  only  one  verse,  but  it  is  parvum  in  midto, 

which  is   Latin  for  "  nothing  in  a  great  deal."     (Reads 

affectedly ;) 

"  Oh,  Mistress  TTitrginson,  thy  star  is  set, 
We  weejj  ftjr  thee,  we  weej),  we  weep ; 
I  feel  a.s  one  whose  heart  might  break, 
I  soon  sfuiU  tuinhlc  in  a  heap  !  " 


MODEL   DIALOGUES. 

Hester — Oli,  be-utif'ul !  be-utiful !  Mr.  Buttermilk, 
you  mast  seud  it  to  the  Semi-weekly  Peashooter. 

(Agatha  laughs.) 

MiLDWEED — Woman,  what  mean  you  by  this  inane 
laughter  ? 

Agatha — Oh,  sir,  I  could  n't  help  it ;  it  was  so  funny 
where  you  talked  about  falling  in  a  heap. 

Raphael — She  has  no  feeling,  no  sensibilities.  I  saw 
the  picture  in  a  moment ;  I  could  paint  it  easily. 

Hester — Ah,  Mr.  Angleoo,  she  belongs  to  the  lower 
order  of  civilization.  As  Hezekiah  Softsoap  justly  observes, 
"some  are  born  to  plough,  and  some  to  sing,  some  to  delve, 
and  some  to  soar."  It  is  for  us  to  soar,  to  sing,  like — per- 
haps I  should  be  justified  in  saying,  like  the  lark. 

Enter  Lawyer  Gay. 

Lawyer — Good  morning,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  good 
morning  ;  solemn  duty,  solemn  duty.  Suppose  you've  all 
come  to  hear  the  Will. 

Miss  Snivel — This  world  is  full  of  partings  and  tears. 
Yes,  Lawyer  Gay,  we  've  come  to  hear  the  last  Will  and 
Testament  of  Mehitable  Higginson. 

[Lawyer  sits  doum,  takes  out  papers  from  a  bag,  puts 
on  spectacles,  tvipes  his  forehead,  etc.'] 

Arethusa — I  must  say,  I  feel  uneasy ;  I  really  wish 
I  'd  been  a  little  more  polite  to  the  old  lady  when  she  was 
alive.  But  she  had  no  taste  whatsoever  ;  she  wore  blue 
and  green  indiscriminately.  x 

MiLDWEED — Ah,  brothers  and  sisters,  such  a  life  as 
that  woman  led  !  When  I  recall  the  noble  words  she  used 
to  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  I  am  quite  overcome. 
Said  she,  "  You  're  a  contemptible  coward,  Mildweed  But- 
termilk, staying  at  home  writing  poetry,  and  letting  others 
do  the  work."     Ah,  she  was  a  noble  creature ! 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

Raphael — When  I  remember  what  she  said  about  my 
great  picture,  "  The  Baudits  of  the  Rocky  Pass,"  my  feel- 
iugs  are  too  much  for  me.  Said  she,  "  This  is  a  mere  daub, 
Raphael  Augleoo,  a  miserable  daub."  Such  a  miud  as 
that  womau  had ! 

Hester — I  think  none  of  you  appreciated  it  more 
than  myself.  I  loved  her  as  a  sister,  or  I  might  say  as  a 
mother. 

[Lawyer  Gay  has  meanwhile  opened  the  Will  and 
fjone  over  it ;  he  suddenly  starts  up.'] 

Lawyer — Goodness  gracious !     What 's  this  ? 

{All  start  from  their  chairs.) 

Miss  Snivel — Oh,  you've  given  me  such  a  turn !  "What 
is  it?  Tell  me  at  once. 

(  Arethusa  snatches  the  paper,  reads,  and  shrieks.) 

Arethusa — Oh,  the  wretch  !  the  stony-hearted  sinner  ! 
Where  is  my  fan  ;   my  smelling-bottle  ?     She  has  left  her 
whole  property  to  that  plebeian  upstart,  Agatha  INIartiu. 
[Agatha  stares,  looks  confused,  cries  "  You  do  n't  say ! " 
throws  her  apron  over  her  head,  and  runs  out.l 

Hester — Oh,  to  think  of  it!  She  must  have  had  a 
softening  of  the  brain  ;  and  yet  I  wrote  to  her  every  day 
during  her  illness ;  what  can  it  mean  ?  I  was  preparing  a 
short  sketch  of  her  life  for  the  Pictorial  Album,  but — now 
— it — will — never — be — completed  !        (liuns  out  crying.) 

Raphael — And  to  think  that  I  painted  her  likeness 
and  called  it  Heroism!  That  it  should  come  to  this!' 
"  Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  !  "  Life  is  a 
delusion  ;  truth  has  departed ;  Raphael  Angleoo's  miserable 
career  is  over;  he  has  gone,  he  has  gone — where?  Echo 
answers  "  Nowhere  !  "  (He  rushes  out.) 

Arethusa — Ah,  I  shan't  get  over  this  for  a  week! 
And  I  can't — buy — my — pink — tarletan — for  Mrs.  Jim- 
jam's  !  (Exit  crying.) 


MODEL    DIALOGUES. 

MiLDWEED — It  is  truly  lamentable,  Miss  Snivel.  It 
recalls  forcibly  to  my  miud  those  exquisite  lines  of  Louisa 
Bulfiuch  ;  perhaps  you  know  them  ? 

"  When  you  catch  a  linnet — " 

Miss  Snivel — Who  'd  a  thought  Mehitable  Higgiuson 
would  have  played  so  false?  I  made  sage  tea  with  her 
forty  times  if  I  did  once  ;  and  as  for  preserving  raspberries 
and  making  currant  wine,  there's  no  knowing  how  often 
we've  done  that  together.  This  world  is  far  from  being 
what  it  should  be  !  Lawyer  Gay,  give  me  your  arm.  I 
feel  a  sinking  and  a  failing  ;  pray,  give  me  your  arm. 

(  Thexj  go  out.) 

Lawyer — (Looking  back) — Rather  a  strange  thing, 
eh  ?  Miss  Higginsou's  Will ! 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT 

— TO — 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  No.  6. 


This  Supplement  will  be  forwarded  to  any  address,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
Ten  Cents  (or  three  copies  for  Twenty- Five  Cents),  by  addressing 
J-.  (iARRBTT  &  Co.,  Publishers.  708  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia.  Pa. 


BILL  JEPSON'S  WIFE.*— Robert  C.  V.  Meyers. 

CHARACTERS. 

Bill  Jepson,  a  siiilor. 
PoLLV  Jepson,  his  wife. 
Little  Polly,  their  daughter. 

Scene. —  Interior  of  Jepson^  s  house;  door  at  back;  settee;  stove,be- 
fore  irhtch  is  a  pair  of  little  shoes.  Polly  Jepson  seated,  patch iny  a 
child's  frock.    Little  Polly  sleeping  on  the  settee.    Knock  at  door. 

Polly  {with  an  exclamation,  rising  and  throwing  aside  her 
sewing).  Ah,  if  it  should  be  Bill  come  from  his  voyage  to- 
night instead  of  to-morrow,  when  he  was  expected.  [Aloud.) 
Who's  tliere? 

Bill  (outside).     Ahoy!     Do  Bill  Jepson's  wife  live  here? 

Polly.  It  is  liis  voice,  and  yet  it  is  not.  {Goes  and  throws 
open  door.)     I  am  Bill  Jepson's  wife. 

Bill  {disguised  and  with  altered  voice).  Hum !  Lass,  will  you 
ask  me  in? — I've  news  of  BUI. 

PoLiA'  (aside).  You're  acting  are  you?  (Aloud.)  Come 
in,  sailor,  and  tell  me  what  you  know. 

Bill  comes  forward,  looks  fiercely  at  Polly,  who  smiles  at  him. 

Bill  (amle).     Well,  I  never  did! 

Polly  (aside).  Oh,  ho;  I'll  act  too.  (Aloud.)  Sit  by  the 
fire;  you  must  bo  chilled  througli,  the  ni^rlit  is  terribly  cold. 

♦  Copyright,  loBlJ,  by  V.  Gakuktt  ii  Co. 

2kk* 


202  ONE   IIUXDKED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6, 

Bill  (osiWf).  Well!  {Aloud  and  harshly.)  I  am  chilled 
through,  Bill  Jepson's  wife  (seating  himself  before  the  fire). 
Are  ye  all  alone  here,  woman? 

Polly.   No  {pointing  to  the  shoes  before  the  fire,  and  to  little  Polly 
on  the  settee).     Now,  sailor,  what's  this  great  news  of  yours? 
Bill.     Ain't  ye  afeard  o'  me,  ye  a  lone  woman? 
Polly.    Bosh !    Tell  me  your  news. 

Bill.    Bill   Jepson's  wife,  ye  flustrate  me.     I — I  kinder 

thought  ye'd  be  a  bit  afeard  o'  me,  bein's  I'm  a  rough  sailor. 

Polly.    Pshaw!     Hurry  uji  with  your  news. 

Bill  {a^de).     I  don't  know  what  to  make  o'  her.    {Aloud.} 

I — I  don't  know  how   to   begin  the  yarn,  an'  you  settin' 

there  so  unskeered. 

Polly  {sitting  doivn  and  sewing).     Pm  ready. 
Bill  {aside).     I  didn't  count  on  this.     {Aloud.)     Be'n't  ye 
a  leetle  narvous? 

Polly.     Oh  my,  no !     I'm  steady  enough  to  count  every 
stitch  I  put  in  little  Polly's  frock.     I  nervous  ?  oh,  dear ! 

Bill  {frowning).    Bill  Jepson's  wife,  I've  that  to  tell  you 
as'U  unsteady  you,  then.     When  did  ye  hear  last  from  Bill  ? 
Polly  (biting  a  thread).    Six  months  ago.    He  was  on  the 
way  to  Madagascar. 
Bill.     Ye'U  not  hear  from  him  in  a  hurry  agin. 
Polly'.     He  never  did  write  often. 

Bill  (desperately).     Lass,  he'll  never  write  agin,  Bill  won't ! 

Polly.     I'm  sorry  for  Bill — ^he'll  miss  it. 

Bill  (looking  at  her  amazedly,  and  iciping  his  forehead  with  his 

handkerchief).     1  think  I'll  begin  my  yarn. 

Polly.     La,  sailor,  haven't  you  begun  yet  ? 

Bill  (aside).    Sech  a  queer  start.     (Aloud.)     Ye  know  six 

months  ago  Bill  sailed  for  Madagascar.     Me  an'  him,  we  was 

chums ;  whatsomever  he  done,  thatsoraever  done  I ;  where- 

somever  he  went,  theresomever  went  I ;   whensomever  he 

writ  to  ye,  I  seen  that  there  writin',  sure  as  gospel ;  when 

he  thunk  o'  ye,  I  knowed  it.     But  there's  storms  at  sea, 

lass,  sich  storms!    there's  a  creakin',  an'  a  groanin',  an'  a 

thunderin',  a  rippin'  an'  a  tearin'   every wheres;    there's 

storms  when  ye  think  o'  home  an'  the  wife  an'  babby,  an'  ye 

look  up  in  the  thick  o'  the  angry  sky  an'  try  to  speer  out 

the  helpin'  hand  o'  Him  that  walked  on  the  waters  an'  told 

the  waves,  "  Peace,  be  still ! "    There's  storms  as  makes  a 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  203 

sailor  cry  out  for  the  Lord's  help  for  them  he  loves,  even  if 
he  don't  cry  out  for  help  for  his  own  life.  Who  knowed 
more  about  storms  than  me  an'  Bill  Jepson  ?  We'd  follered 
the  sea  nigh  on  to  twenty  year,  an'  never  separated.  I  cmCl 
tell  ye,  for  ye'll  feel  too  bad. 

Polly.  No,  I  won't,  sailor;  I  like  it,— it  sounds  old- 
fashioned. 

Bill.    Old-fashioned ! 

Polly.  Yes.  Bill  used  to  sit  where  you  are  sitting,  and 
I'd  be  in  this  identical  spot  sewing  as  I'm  sewing  now,  and 
he'd  tell  his  awful  yarns  and  try  to  make  me  believe  them. 

Bill.    You  don't  think  I'm  deceivin'  ye  ? 

Polly.  I'm  not  thinking  much  about  it,  so  you  needn't 
have  that  in  your  head.     Go  on,  do ! 

Bill  {aside).  I'll  try  her  furder.  {Aloud.)  Bill  Jepson's 
wife,  there  comes  a  storm  one  day,  an'  the  skipper  he  comes 
to  us  an'  says,  says  he,  "  It's  all  up  wi'  us.  Save  yourselves !" 
The  ship  she'd  sprung  a  leak,  the  pumps  was  no  good,  an' 
.ve  was  goin'  down,  an'—  oh.  Bill  Jepson's  wife,  how  kin  I 
Bay  it?— your  husband  he  wouldn't  desart  that  there  ship  as 
he'd  known  ever  since  him  an'  the  ship  was  both  young. 

Polly  {shaking  her  head).  That  was  right  of  him;  I'd 
never  own  Bill  Jepson  if  he'd  forsake  his  work  because  it 
grew  troublesome. 

Bill.  Yes,  but,  lass,  Bill  he  was  aboard  till  the  last  two 
timbers  separated.  He  wouldn't  go ;  he  got  the  others  off, 
he  helped  wi'  the  cargo,  an'  there  he  staid  a-lookin'  out  in 
the  direction  o'  his  home,  an'  thinkin'  o'  ye  an'  the  babby. 

Polly  {tremvloasly).    True  for  you,  sailor. 

Bill.  But  why  don't  ye  git  flustrated  ?  Didn't  ye  keer 
for  Bill  ?     Why  don't  ye  git  in  a  reg'lar  terror  ? 

Poi.ly.  Oh,  I'll  get  that  way  after  a  bit;  I  must  finish 
this  patch  first. 

BiLL(fmcZ^).    Land  o' Columbus !   {Aloud.)  Then  ye  didn't 

keer  nothin'  for  Bill? 

Polly  {faring  him).  Now  look  here,  sailor,  you  say  you 
knew  I'.ill  very  well.  Didn't  Bill  ever  know  of  the  times 
when  I've  sat  here  all  alone  through  the  night,  after  I've 
tucked  littki  Polly  up  warm  in  bod,  and  staid  by  the 
window  looking  out  at  the  raving  storm,  and  thinking  of 
my  husband  away  on  the  watery  wild  ?     Didn't  he  know 


204  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   0. 

how  at  such  times  my  heart  went  across  the  cruel  sea,  hunt- 
ing for  him, — went  further  than  the  sea,  even  up  to  Him 
who  holds  the  sea  and  the  storm  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand  ? 
Didn't  he  know  how  I  treasured  up  every  hope,  every  dream 
of  him,  every  word  he'd  ever  said, —  that  I  searched  little 
Polly's  face  day  after  day,  seeing  there  a  tiny  likeness  of  his 
eyes,  and  loving  the  child  more  for  that  than  anything  else? 
And  didn't  he  know  that  when  I  was  timider  than  usual, 
and  wanted  him  more  than  usual,  I'd  go  to  little  Polly's  bed 
and  say,  "  Wake,  little  Polly,  wake  with  mammy,  and  pray 
for  daddy  on  the  wild,  wild  seas ;" — and  how  I'd  fix  little 
Polly's  hands,  and  we'd  kneel  down  beside  her  crib  and 
say,  "Our  Father,"  and  feel  sure  that  the  Father  knew  what 
we  were  asking  for,  and  tliat  our  prayer  would  be  answered  ? 
Didn't  Bill  know  how  I  must  have  counted  the  days,  full  of 
want  for  him,  watching  and  waiting  for  him,  ever  true  in 
word  and  thought?  (Risinc/.)  Couldn't  he  tell  you  that  he 
guessed  I  loved  all  sailors  for  his  sake,  and  that  I  pitied  the 
lonely  ones  that  came  in  port  here,  and  made  friends  with 
tlaem?  For  I've  gone  to  them,  and  I've  said,  "Cheer  up,  my 
lads ;  I'm  Bill  .Tepson's  wife.  Let  me  help  you  if  I  can ;  if 
you're  sick,  or  gloomy,  or  want  little  bits  of  woman's  work 
done  for  you,  why  come  to  me,  for  I'm  Bill  Jepson's  wife, 
and  he's  a  sailor,  too!"  And  how  often  this  room  has  held 
sailors,  and  when  they'd  go  how  they'd  kiss  little  Polly — 
for  they've  said  they  might  pass  by  Bill's  ship  and  it  would 
seem  almost  as  though  they  carried  Polly's  kisses  to  him ; 
or  they'd  kiss  her  because  they  had  little  ones  of  their  own 
who  must  be  thinking  of  the  sea  and  their  daddies  there. 
And  I've  helped  them  all  I  could ;  and  little  Polly  and  I 
have  gone  to  see  their  ships  off,  and  I've  bade  little  Polly 
wave  her  hand  and  cry,  "  Good  bye !  and  my  love  to  your 
little  ones  like  me!"  and  the  men  have  called,  "Three 
cheers  and  a  tiger  for  Bill  Jepson's  wife,  and  may  the  Lord 
be  good  to  little  Polly  !"  And  I've  done  all  this  for  love  of 
Bill.  And  you  don't  say  that  he  ever  thought  of  that ;  you 
only  say  that  I  never  cared  for  him.  If  he  did  not  know  me 
without  words,  then  he  didn't  love  me  as  I  thought. 

She  wipes  her  eyes  on  the  little  frock,  and  sinks  into  the  chair  again. 
Bill  looks  at  her,  half  rises,  then  reseats  himself  nervously. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  205 

Bill.  Well,  lass,  yes,  he  knowed  it,— he  thnnk  he  knowed 
it.  But — now  comes  the  all-firedest  part  o'  this  here  yarn. 
Now — now  don't  ye  cry  out,  an'  don't  ye  flop  down,  but — 
Bill  Jepson  he  won't  never  come  home  no  more,  never! 

Polly  {smilingly  regarding  him).  Why  will  he  never  come 
home,  sailor? 

Bill.  Because— because  he's  drownded  dead! — ^because 
he's  went  to  Davy  Jones'  locker ! 

Polly  {quietly).    I  don't  believe  it,  sailor. 

Bill.     1  was  wi'  him  all  the  time  ;  I  orter  know. 

Polly.  Why  weren't  you  drowned,  too?  If  you  thoujrht 
as  much  of  him  as  you  say,  why  didn't  you  drown  trying  to 
save  him,  if  for  no  other  cause  ? 

Bill.  I  — I — well,  I  was  washed  ashore.  But  poor  Bill, 
he— Bill  he's  went. 

Polly  {folding  up  the  frock).  Oh,  dear!  if  that's  the  case, 
I  miiiht  as  well  make  up  my  mind  to  be  a  widow. 

Bill.    But  why  don't  ye  get  tlustrated,  AV'idder  Jepson? 

Polly.    I'll  get  that  way  aftrt"  awhile. 

Bill.  But  I  tell  ye  Bill  Jepson  ain't  no  more, — him  that 
was  your  husband. 

Polly.  I  can't  help  that,  can  I  ?  I  didn't  drown  him, 
did  I?  I'm  a  widow,  am  I  not?  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
think  about  it  {rising).  You  see,  sailor,  I  can't  live  here  all 
alone,  now  can  I  ? 

Bill.     AVhat  do  ye  mean,  Widder  Jepson? 

Polly.  That's  right — that's  right;  i'ln  Widoiv  Jepson. 
But  I  don't  mean  to  be  Widow  Jepson  all  my  life ;  I'm  going 
to  be  a  wife. 

Bill  (rm?i5').  A  wife!  Woman,  your  husband  he  ain't 
hardly  cold  yet! 

Polly.    Then  the  sea  must  be  a  pretty  warm  place. 

Bill.    Do  ye  mean  to  say  ye  don't  love  Bill  ? 

Polly.  It  would  be  mournful  to  love  a  dead  husband  and 
yet  Vje  a  wife  to  a  live  one,  sailor. 

Bill.  Who  — who'd  have  ye  for  a  wife  when  they  knows 
all  I  knows?  AVidder,  I'll  tell  the  whole  town— I'll  tell  the 
whole  world — I'll  [)nt  it  in  the  "Log!" 

Polly.     Bosh,  sailor!  wliat  nonsense! 

I>iLL.     Who'll  have  ye  for  a  wife,  ye 

Polly.     Why  you  will,  sailor,  I  know  you  will. 


206  ONE   UUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

Bill.  Me !  Git  out  o'  my  way,  Bill  Jepson's  wife,  git  out 
o'  my  way !  Me  have  ye !  I  was  sure  I'd  find  ye  crazy  mad  ' 
at  the  idee  o'  Bill  a-rollin'  around  wi'  sharks  an'  sich  in  the 
sea;  while  now  to  hear  ye  —  0  woman,  woman,  ye  don't 
know  what  ye've  done !  I'll  go  back  to  my  ship  {going 
toward  door) ;  I'll  hate  all  women  for  sake  o'  ye ;  I'll  never 
tell  who  I  am 

Polly.    Sailor,  you  shall  have  me !  I  mean  to  be  your  wife ! 

Bill.    Let  me  git  to  my  ship !  ' 

Polly  {running  before  him  and  putting  her  arm  across  the 
aoor).  I'll  lock  the  door.  You  shall  not  leave  this  house 
till  you  say  you'll  have  me  for  your  lawful  wedded  wife. 

Bill.  Let  me  out !  I'll  never  say  sich  words.  Woman, 
ye're  a  awful  critter,  that's  what  ye  are !  Ye've  said  ye 
loved  your  husband  so  ye'd  git  me  to  marry  ye ;  ye've  saw 
so  many  sailors  ye  think  we're  all  green  alike.  I  don't  be- 
lieve ye  ever  thunk  o'  your  Bill  {struggling  to  get  past  her) ;  I 
don't  believe  even  your  littje  Polly  thunk  o'  her  poor  de- 
ceived daddy  

Polly  {keeping  him  from  the  door).  Not  of  her  deceived  daddy, 
sailor,  but  her  daddy  who  must  always  believe  me  as  loving 
him  tender  and  true, — her  daddy  I  saw  this  blessed  night ! 

Bill  {jiausing  in  his  efforts  to  get  out).  Who — who — her 
daddy ! — this  night ! 

Polly  {throwing  her  arms  about  him  and  removing  his  dis- 
guise). Here !  here !  here  is  little  Polly's  daddy, — my  Bill, 
my  dear  old  boy!  {Cries  aloud.)  Polly!  little  Polly!  wake 
up !  wake  up !  Come  to  mammy !  for  daddy's  come  home — 
daddy's  come  home  from  the  cruel,  cruel  sea,  and  he's  tried 
to  make  mammy  believe  he  was  somebody  else,  and  that 
little  Polly's  daddy  was  drowned  in  the  storm.  Oh,  Bill,  I 
knew  you  when  I  opened  the  door  and  let  you  in — I  never 
could  mistake  you,  never,  never !  Little  Polly !  Little 
Polly !   {Little  Polly  rum  from  the  settee  crying,  "Daddy!  daddy.'") 

Bill  [folding  the  two  in  his  arms).  Three  cheers  and  a 
tiger  for  Bill  Jepson's  wife,  and  may  the  Lord  be  good  to 

li"l^^^"y'  ^Curtain  falls. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  207 


AN  ELECTRIC  EPISODE.*— Helen  Booth. 

CHARACTERS. 
Mr.  Nathaniel  Fizzigig. 
Miss  Deborah  Mavfloweb. 
Nellie  5Iayflowee. 
Richard  Omoneoi. 

Scene. — Parlor  at  Mm  Mayflower'' s.    A  galvanic  battery  on  table. 
Richard  Omonroi  putting  books  in  valise. 

EfciiARD.  So  it  all  ends.  I  came  here  with  the  hope  of 
gaining  a  wife ;  I  leave,  minus  the  wife  and  the  hope. 
When  I  came  I  possessed  Nellie's  love.  I  have  that  still, — 
an  interesting  fortune  whose  rate  of  interest  is  not  to  be  cal- 
culated by  numerals.  {Shaking  fist  at  battery.)  O  you  elec- 
tric miscreant,  upon  whose  futility  I  have  been  wrecked  I 
In  your  hidden  force  I  expected  to  find  all  things.  A  poor 
man  shall  never  aspire  to  Nellie's  hand,  her  guardian,  Fizzi- 
gig. told  me.  And  there  is  wealth  in  electricity,  is  there? 
I'll  smash  your  pretensions,  you  lightning  calculator !  {Beat- 
ing battery.)     You  hoarder  of  latent  principles ! 

Enter  Nellie  Mayflower. 

Nellie.  Richard,  Richard,  what  in  the  world  are  you 
doing? 

Richard.     "Worsting  the  enemy.    It  is  good-bye,  Nellie. 

Nellie.  I  know.  And  yet  I  have  run  all  the  way  from 
Mr.  Fizzigig's  to  beg  you  not  to  despair.  You  are  bound  to 
succeed  yet. 

Richard.    Electrically  speaking? 

Nellie.     Why  not?    Love  is  an  electric  element. 

Richard  {running  to  her).    O  Nellie ! 

Nellie.    And— and  I've  come  to— to  say  that 

Richard.    Yes,  yes;  to  say  what? 

Nellie.    That  I  understand  you  are  not  going  away  alone. 

Richard.     Oli,  yes,  I  am. 

Nellie.     I  am  positive  that  some  one  goes  with  you. 

Richard.     Yes,  my  inveterate  enemy. 

Nellie.  You  refer  to  the  galvanic  battery  whose  motor  of 
action  you  have  invc^nted.  But  tliere  is  some  one  else  going 
with  yon. 

*  Coijyriglit,  1880,  liy  P.  Gakkett  &  Co. 


208  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

Richard.     And  that  is? 

Nellie.     A  lady. 

Richard.     A  lady  ? 

Nellie.     Oh,  don't  be  stupid  ,  I— I  am  the  lady. 

Richard.     What !  you  would 

Nellie.    Elope  with  you  and  the  inveterate  enemy. 

Richard.     Nellie! 

Nellie.  There !  there !  we've  little  time  for  bliss.  Let 
me  help  you  to  pack.  The  train  leaves  in  thirty  minutes. 
Mr.  Fizzigig  has  gone  to  a  meeting  of  agriculturists  and  will 
not  return  for  an  hour.     ( Takes  valise  and  crams  in  books.) 

Richard.  I  am  dizzy,  Nellie.  You  are  a  miracle.  A  young 
woman  in  these  days  to  marry  a  man  whose  sole  possession 
is  a  patent  on  a  galvanic  battery ! 

Nellie.    With  an  ounce  or  so  of  brains  thrown  in. 

Richard.     I  forgot  the  brains. 

Nellie.    And  then  1  believe  you  have  a  sound  heart. 

Richard.    Two  hearts;  yours  and  mine. 

Nellie.    Electrically  speaking. 

Richard  {upsetting  valise  and  books).  Positively  I  must  em- 
brace you. 

Nellie  {looking  off,  screams).    Who  is  this  coming? 

Richard  {also  looking).    Your  Aunt  Deborah. 

Nellie.  Then  there  will  be  no  elopement.  We  were  too 
premature  in  our  satisfaction  ;  for  Mr.  Fizzigig  has  for  years 
paid  his  addresses  to  her,  and  she  is  every  day  expecting  an 
offer  of  marriage.     Oh!     {Both  hide  behind  taUe.) 

Enter  Miss  Mayflower,  savagely  throwing  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
and  tramping  up  and  down. 

Miss  M.  Of  all  perfidious  men !  Pays  his  addresses  to 
me  for  fifteen  years,  and  then  sends  me  word  this  morning, 
my  birthday,  that  he  desires  particularly  to  see  me.  Natu- 
rally I  expect  a  proposal.  He  only  wants  to  know  how  1 
raise  my  best  turnips !  Oh,  Nathaniel  Fizzigig !  if  I  had  you 
here  I'd  turnip  you !     (  Walks  up  and  down.) 

Nkllie.     Mercy,  Dick !  they've  had  a  quarrel ! 

Richard.     In  that  case  we  may  still 

Miss  M.  Let  me  give  vent  to  my  feelings!  I  wish  I 
could  scream  as  loudly  as  I'd  like  to ;  1  wish  I'd  learned  to 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  209 

sing  German  opera-music, — that  would  be  more  awful  yet ! 
I've  a  good  mind  to  go  up  stairs  and  have  a  fit!  Ha!  ha! 
if  I  could  only  smash  something! 

Richard  ( picking  up  battery  and  running  with  it  to  hei-).  Some- 
thing to  smash,  dear  Miss  Deborah  ?  ^'ent  your  feelings  on 
this  and  be  happy. 

Miss-M.  Eh? — you  here,  young  man?  I  understood 
when  I  bade  you  good-bye  a  couple  of  hours  ago  that  you 
had  brought  your  visit  to  an  end.  And  what  is  this  you 
otfer  me? 

KiCHARD.  My  inveterate  enemy.  You  want  something 
to  smash  ;  smash  this  and  be  hapi)y. 

Miss  M.     Then  you've  overheard  my  soliloquy? 

Richard.     We  have. 

Miss  M.     We !     Who  are  we  ? 

Richard.     Ah— ah — my  inveterate  enemy  and  myself. 

Nellie.    Don't  call  me  such  a  name  as  that ! 

Miss  M.  Whose  voice  is  that  ?  Come  from  behind  that 
table,  Nellie!    {XeUie  comes  forward.)   What  does  this  mean  ? 

Nellie  {weeping).  Mr.  Fizzigig  says  that  Dick  sha'n't 
have  me ;  and  now  you'll  prevent  our  eloping. 

Miss  M.    Who  says  so? 

Richard.  Yes,  yes.  Miss  Deborah,  you  have  been  badly 
treated  by  Mr.  Fizzigig ;  conspire  with  us  against  him  and 
let  us  elope. 

Miss  M.  If  I  don't  you'll  tell  everybody  what  you've 
overheard  me  say,  and  thus  make  me  ridiculous. 

Richard.  We  couldn't  make  you  ridiculous,  Miss  Deborah. 

Miss  M.  You  could,  young  man ;  the  Mayflowers  are  all 
ridiculous. 

Nellie.    And  revengeful,  too. 

Miss  M.     Nellie,  I  admire  your  spirit. 

Nellik.     Having  so  much  sj)irit  yourself. 

Miss  M.  Precisely.  And  if  1  don't  let  you  do  what  you 
want  to  do,  you'll  be  revenged  on  me,  won't  you  ? 

Nkllie.  I  might  remember  what  Dick  and  I  overheard 
you  say. 

Mi.ss  M.  That  Nathaniel  Fizzigig,  after  fifteen  years' 
dilly-dallying,  has  not  yet  come  to  the  point. 

Nki.i.ik.  I  wouldn't  rememljcr  it  if  I  could  help  it,  but 
then  Dick 


210  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   G. 

Richard.  Has  come  to  the  point.  Surely,  Miss  Deborah, 
our  happiness  is  something  to  you. 

Miss  M.  My  revenge  on  Nathaniel  Fizzigig  is  something 
to  me.  He  wanted  to  know  about  turnips,  did  he?  I'll 
turnip  him  {hitting  battery) ! 

Richard.     That  means? 

Nellie.    That  you  will  help  us  off?  , 

Miss  M.     Yes !     Go  and 

Richard.    Be  happy  !     Hurrah ! 

Miss  M.  No  ;  go  and  make  Nathaniel  Fizzigig  raving ! 
Now  give  me  something  to  smash ! 

Nellie.     Oh,  you  angelic  Deborah  Mayflower ! 

Miss  M.  Give  angelic  Deborah  Mayflower  something  to 
smash !  ^^,,^- 

Richard.     Here's  the  inveterate  enemy. 

Miss  M.  {taking  hold  of  crank  of  the  battery).  Oh,  Nathaniel 
Fizzigig,  if  you  possessed  a  crank  like  this  little  hand-organ 
aflair,  wouldn't  I  give  you  a  turn,  you  inquirer  after  turnips 
(turning  crank) ! 

Richard  {shrieking).    Oh !  oh ! 

Miss  M.     What  is  the  matter,  young  man  ? 

Richard.  Don't  turn  that  crank  ;  that's  my  patent ;  when 
you  turn  that,  anyone  holding  the  poles  is  paralyzed  until 
you  stop  turning. 

Nellie.  And  Dick  shall  not  be  paralyzed  {taking  battery 
from  him) ! 

Miss  M.  If  Nathaniel  Fizzigig  only  held  the  poles  wouldn't 
I  turn  {turning  crank) ! 

Nellie  (s/irieZ-in^r).     Oh!  oh! 

Miss  M.    Why  I  never  saw  such  people. 

Nellie.    But  you  are  paralyzing  me  now. 

Miss  M.     I  tell  you  1  must  smash  something! 

Richard  {taking  battery).  And  I  have  told  you  to  smash 
this. 

Miss  M.  But  I  must  smash  it  slowly.  Oh,  Nathaniel 
Fizzigig 

Richard.     Don't  turn  that  crank  if  you  love  me ! 

Miss  M.  I  don't  love  you ;  I  hate  Nathaniel  Fizzigig.  But 
this  is  frivolous.  There,  hurry,  get  joff.  While  you  finish 
packing,  I'll  smash  the  enemy.    {Richard  puts  battery  on  table, 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  211 

and  he  and  Nellie  pack  the  valise.)    Now  for  the  enemy  and  a 
panacea  for  my  lacerated  feelings. 

Miss  M.  aims  a  blow  at  battery,  when  in  ntshes  Mr.  Fizzigig.   Nellie 
runs  with  Ridiard  to  corner;  Miss  M.  startled  in  middle  of  room. 

Mr.  F.  So  I'm  in  time,  am  I  ?  Ungrateful  girl,  you  would 
elope  and  your  aunt  would  assist  you  !  Deborah  Mayflower, 
I  am  astonished — I,  who  have  been  most  friendly  with  you 
for  fourteen  years ! 

Miss  M.  (sobbing.)     Fifteen  next  September. 

Mr.  F.  To  think  that  you  should  be  false  to  me.  Why  I 
saw  you  only  an  hour  or  so  ago,  and 

Miss  M.  [sobbing.)     You  asked  about  my  turnips. 

Mr.  F.    You  never  broke  this  elopement  to  me ! 

Miss  M.  (^-^7/  sobbing.)  You  broke  my  heart  instead.  Be- 
sides, I  knew  nothing  of  any  elopement  at  the  time. 

Mr.  F.  "Well,  well!  Your  tears  are  useless,  Miss  May- 
flower !     I  shall  never  again  believe  in  your  sex  I 

Miss  M.  [cnjing  outright.)    Oh  !  oh !  my  poor  sex !  oh !  oh  ! 

Mr.  F.  {to  Richard.)    As  for  you,  sir,  cease  to  hold  that  lady ! 

Richard.     I  cannot ;  she  is  holding  me. 

Mr.  F.     Eleanor  Mayflower ! 

Nelt.ik  (weeping).    I  hate  you! 

Mr.  F.  As  your  guardian,  I  have  a  certain  control  over 
your  actions.     You  shall  never  marry  Mr.  Richard  Omonroi ! 

Nkllie.     I  will  never  marry  any  one  else. 

Mr.  F.     a  penniless  adventurer 

Richard.     Sir! 

Mr.  F.    Electrically  speaking. 

Richard.    Oh ! 

Mr.  F.    With  nothing  in  the  world  to  call  his  own. 

Richard.     I  have  something  in  the  world  to  call  my  own. 

Mr.  F.     And  what  is  that,  ^ray? 

Richard.    The  truest  heart  in  the  world, — Nellie's! 

Mr.  F.    Eleanor,  leave  his  side ! 

Nellie.  I  can't ;  he  has  my  heart.  I  can't  leave  without 
my  heart,  can  I  ? 

M  R.  F.  (going  toward  her.)     I'll  see  about  that ! 

Richard.     Don't  presume  to  touch  her,  Mr.  Fizzigig! 

Nkli.ie.  "Tlic  man  who  lays  his  hand  ujjon  a  woman,  save 
in  the  way  of  kindness " 


212  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

Mr.  F.  {turning  to  Miss  M.)     Miss  Mayflower,  I  insist 

Miss  M.  Don't  appeal  to  me.  My  heart  is  broken.  You 
can't  do  much  when  there's  a  broken  heart  inside  you  rat- 
tling like  castanets. 

Mr.  F.     I  will  put  the  case  to  you.     It  turns  upon 

MissM.    Turnips,  I  suppose. 

Mk.  F.  Upon  this  young  inventor  who  aspires  to  an  al- 
liance with  my  ward,  your  niece.  What  in  the  world  are 
his  possessions  ? 

Richard.    The  truest  heart ! 

Miss  M.     An  inveterate  enemy. 

Mr.  F.    Meaning  me,  madam? 

Miss  M.  Oh,  Nathaniel,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?  ( Weep- 
ing.)    I  refer  to  his  electric  invention,  there  on  the  table. 

Mr.  F.  Well  put.  Miss  Deborah  ;  well  put.  His  inveter- 
ate enemy  indeed.  The  time  taken  to  perfect  this  useless 
thing  might  have  gained  him  a  position  in  monetary  circles 
which  would  have  guaranteed  his  taking  a  wife.  Yes,  let  us 
call  it  his  inveterate  enemy.  I  will  put  the  case  thus,  then. 
It  turns  now  {going  to  battery  and  taking  a  pole  in  each  hand) — 
I  say  it  turns 

Miss  M.,  with  a  cry  rim^  to  battery,  turns  crank,  and  Mr.  Fizzigig's 
hands  fly  up,  spasmodically  clutching  the  poles. 

Miss  M.    It  turns  indeed  ! 

Mr.  F.    Stop  that !  stop  that  I 

Miss  M.  {wildly.)  I  can't,  Nathaniel,— I  have  just  dis- 
covered perpetual  motion ! 

Mr.  F.  {writhing.)     Stop  !  stop ! 

Richard.     Nellie,  what  does  this  mean? 

Nkllie.  I  am  frightened;  but  it  looks  as  though  Aunt 
Deborah  were  on  our  side. 

Mr.  F.  Deborah  Mayflower,  in  as  dignified  a  manner  as 
my  present  position  allows,  I  would  inform  you  that  you — 
oh  ! — are  breaking  me  into  pieces ! 

Miss  M.  Then,  Nathaniel,  you  will  be  in  the  condition  of 
my  heart.  It  is  astonishing  to  note  the  concealed  power  in 
this  little  crank. 

Mr.  F.  Stop  turning  out  the  concealed  power !  Oh!  there 
goes  my  spine !    Stop !  stop ! 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  21S 

IMiss  M.  I  cannot  stop,  Nathaniel,  I'm  inspired.  You 
came  to  inquire  about  my  turnips,  did  you  ?  There's  a  quick 
turn  {turning  crank) ! 

Mr.  F.     Oh !  oh !    My  back-brain  is  getting  loose ! 

]\Iiss  M.  You've  paid  your  addresses  to  me  for  fifteen 
years,  and  yet  merely  come  to  ask  about  turnips !  Another 
turn  {turning  crank) ! 

Mr.  F.    Oh !  oh !     I'm  turning  to  ice ! 

Miss  M.    Dance,  Nathaniel ;  it  will  keep  up  the  circulation. 

Mr.  F.     Madam! — oh! 

Miss  M.    Don't  mind  the  present  company ;  dance. 

Mr.  F.  {jumping  about.)     Oh  !  oh ! 

]\Iiss  M.  Nellie  and  Richard,  I  have  the  sensation  of  a 
Druidical  priestess.  I  am  inspired.  I  am  smashing  this 
gradually.  My  revenge  is  working  sweetly.  There  is  no  need 
of  an  elopement ;  Mr.  Fizzigig  consents  to  your  marriage. 

Me.  F.  {jumping.)     Never! 

Miss  M.  {turning  crank.)     Nathaniel  I 

Mr.  F.     Oh!     But  I'll  die  before  I  give  in! 

Miss  M.     No  you  won't.     Nellie ! 

Nellie.    Oh,  aunty,  you  are  hurting  him. 

Miss  ]M.     Don't  interfere  with  perpetual  motion. 

Richard.     But,  really,  Miss  Deborah,  you  will  injure 

]Miss  M.  Your  inveterate  enemy  ?  You  gave  me  leave  to 
smash  it. 

Richard,     I  referred  to  Mr.  Fizzigig. 

]\Iiss  M.  If  you  can  inform  me  where  Mr.  Fizzigig  begins 
and  your  inveterate  enemy  ends,  I  shall  be  grateful.  They 
appear  to  be  one  at  present  {turning  crunk). 

Mr.  F.     Oh  !     Deborah  Mayflower ! 

Miss  M.     What  do  you  say? 

]\Ir.  F.    Deborah,  please  stop !    Dear  Deborah,  stop ! 

Miss  M.     I'm  sorry,  Nathaniel,  but  I'm  inspired.     Nellie  I 

Nellik.     .'\unt  Deborah. 

I\IiHS  M.     Richard ! 

RiciiAun.    Aunt  Deborah. 

Miss  M.  Kneel  to  the  oracle — get  on  your  bended  knees 
before  poor  Mr.  Fizzigig;  not  so  close  that  his  dancdng  will 
interfere  with  your  heads.  [Thcg  kned, 

Mr.  F.    Oh  !  oh  !  what  are  you  up  to  now? 


214  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.    6- 

Miss  M.  Nellie  and  Richard,  repeat  after  me:  "Mr. 
Fizzigig:" 

Nellie  and  Richard.     "Mr.  Fizzigig:" 

Miss  M.     "  Say  '  yes '  that  we  may  be  married." 

Mr.  F.    Never! 

Miss  M.    Repeat  it,  children. 

Nellie  AND  Richard.  "Mr.  Fizzigig,  say  'yes'  that  we 
may  be  married." 

Mr.  F.     No  ! 

Miss  M.  Nathaniel,  it  turns  upon  your  "yes"  {turning 
crank). 

Mr.  F.     Oh!  oh!  my  clavicle  is  crumbling! 

JNIiss  M.     It  turns  uj^on  your  "yes,"  Nathaniel. 

Mr.  F.    Deborah  !  Deborah  !  Deborah ! 

Miss  M.    Say  "  yes,"  Nathaniel,  or  I'll  use  both  hands. 

Mr.  F.     Murder!  murder!     Yes! 

Miss  M.  Rise,  children;  the  oracle  has  granted  your 
petition.  [They  rise. 

Richard.    Thank  you,  Mr.  Fizzigig. 

Nellie.     Guardy,  I  love  you  once  again. 

Mr.  F.    Stop  your  aunt  then  ! 

Richard.  Really,  Miss  Deborah,  if  you  turn  that  crank 
all  the  time 

Miss  M.  Young  man,  this  is  a  trifling  affair  between  Mr. 
Fizzigig  and  myself.     Your  inveterate  enemy 

Richard.     Has  turned  out  to  be  our  life-long  friend. 

Miss  M.  It  shall  turn  out  my  life-long  friend,  or  I'll  never 
turn  a  crank  again  {turning  crank). 

Mr.  F.  Nellie,  save  me ;  Richard,  save  me ;  I  freely  con- 
sent to  your  marriage,  only  uninspire  the  Druidical  priestess 
who  has  discovered  perpetual  motion. 

Miss  M.  Never  interfere,  Richard  and  Nellie,  or  your  in- 
veterate enemy  will  come  to  life  again. 

Mr.  F.    Deborah,  dear  Deborah,  darling  Deborah ! 

Miss  M.    I  am  powerfully  strong  in  the  arms,  Nathaniel. 

Mr.  F.    Yes,  yes,  I  know !     Oh ! 

Miss  M.  How  long  have  you  paid  your  addresses  to  me, 
Nathaniel  ? 

JNIr.  F.    As  long  as  you  please,  beloved  Deborah. 

Miss  M.    Say  "Dear  Debby." 

Mb.  F.    Dear  Debby.    Oh! 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  215 

Miss  M.  For  what  did  you  request  an  interview  with  me 
to-day,  Nathaniel  ? 

Mr.  F.    Turn 

Miss  M.  {turning  crank.)     I  will. 

Mr.  F.  No,  I  did  not  come  about  turnips,  adorable  Deb- 
by  ;  I  came— oh! 

Miss  M.  (turning  crank.)     You  came? 

Mr.  F.    To  ask  you— oh! 

Miss  M.    To  ask  me  ? 

Mr.  F.     To  please  to  be  my  wife  I     Oh  !  oh  ! 

i\Iiss  M.  (stopping  the  crank  and  staggering  to  Mr.  F.)  To 
which  I  answer  "I  will."  Hold  me,  Nathaniel;  the  in- 
spiration has  left  me,  and  I  am  weak.     I 

EicHAUD.    She  has  fainted. 

Nellie.     Oh,  aunty,  aunty  ! 

Miss  M.     Nathaniel,  this  is  your  doing.     My  poor  nerves ! 

Mr.  F.  Deborah,  forgive  me ;  I  will  never  thwart  you 
again.  We  will  be  married  to-morrow.  Richard  and  Nellie, 
thank  your  aunt  for  everything ;  I  may  be  weak,  but  I  am 
strong  enough  to 

Miss  M.     Ketract  anything  you  have  said? 

-Mr.  F.     No,  no,  no ;  to — to  worship  the 

Richard.    Inveterate  enemy? 

All.    Yes,  yes! 

Richard.  For  it  has  proven  the  life-long  friend  of  us  all. 
Through  it  I  obtain  a  loving  wife. 

Nellie.     And  I  a  faithful  husband. 

M.3S  M.     And  I  a  devoted  partner. 

Mr.  F.  And  I  the  paralysis.  I— I  mean  an  inspired  wife 
to  whom  I  v.ould  have  proposed  years  ago  had  I  felt  that  I 
was  worthy  of  such  perfection. 

Miss  M.     Nathaniel,  hold  mc!     Ah!     (Faints  in  his  arms.) 

Nellie  and  Richard.    She  has  swooned ! 

Mr.  F.  Aj)ply  the  life-long  friend — apj^ly  the  battery! 
and  let  me  turn  it!  oh,  let  me  turn  it! 

Jiicfuird  and  Nellie  run  and  bring  the  battery,  as  curtain  falls. 


21S  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   6. 

VANITY  VANQUISHED.-"-— H.  Elliott  McBkidb. 

CHARACTERS. 

Washington  Wopps,  a  sell-conceited  youth. 

EnzA  Bellman, 

Fanny  Lyons,  „  ,  j    »,      j  „ 

>  doling  lady  boardere. 
Bell  Clinton, 

Annie  Harper, 

John  Darley,  representing  an  Irish  washerwoman. 

Scene  I. — Parlor  of  a  boarding-house.     Washington  Wopps  dis- 
covered, seated. 

Washington.  I  feel  that  I  am  admired  by  all  the  young 
ladies  in  this  boarding-house.  And  I  think  they  are  all 
very  fine  girls.  But  I  can't  marry  all  of  them.  Eliza  Bell- 
man is  always  very  pleasant  with  me.  She  always  wears  a 
smile  and  has  such  fascinating  ways.  I  know  she  loves  me, 
or  she  wouldn't  look  at  me  as  she  does.  I  can  understand 
a  girl  and  read  her  mind  pretty  clearly  by  the  way  she  looks 
at  me.  If  tliere  were  not  three  other  girls  here  who  love 
me  just  as  well  as  Eliza  does,  I  should  propose  to  her  and 
marry  her  at  once.  But  what  can  I  do  when  there  are  four 
of  them  ?  Then  there  is  Fanny  Lyons.  She  is  just  as  pleas- 
ant as  Eliza  Bellman,  and  she  looks  at  me  in  the  same  way. 
I  know  she  would  be  happy  if  I  should  ask  her  to  be  mine. 
Bell  CUnton,  they  say,  is  quite  wealthy,  and  she,  I  know, 
would  make  a  good  wife.  She  is  intelligent,  too.  I  have 
never  met  a  young  lady  that  could  converse  any  better  than 
Bell.  I  feel  sure  that  she  loves  me,  too,  and  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  select  her.  Then  there  is  Annie  Harper.  She  is  a 
very  lovely  girl, — so  kind  in  her  ways  and  so  smooth  in  her 
manners.  I  can  see  plainly  tliat  her  hopes  are  centred  upon 
me.  But  how  shall  I  decide  which  one  to  propose  to  ?  I 
believe  Eliza  Bellman  stirs  my  heart  more  than  any  of  the 
others.  Sometimes  I  think  so,  anyhow,  and  sometimes  I 
think  that  Fanny  Lyons  is  the  one  I  ought  to  marry.  And 
then  when  a  day  or  two  passes  away,  I  think  that  Bell  Clin- 
ton is  the  one.  But  there's  Annie  Harper,  and  it  would  be 
hard  for  me  to  pass  her  by  and  take  one  of  the  others.  I 
know  she  would  feel  sad  if  I  did.     But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

♦Copyright,  18SG,  by  P.  Gabueii  &  Co.     All  rights  reserved. 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  217 

They  are  all  so  kind  and  so  lovely,  and  they  all  look  at  me 
in  that  certain  way,  and  I  cannot  decide.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  choose  Bell  Clinton,  as,  they  say,  she  is  quite  wealthy. 
She  is  not  any  more  intelligent  nor  any  more  fascinating 
than  the  others,  but  the  money  is  an  item  of  importance. 
Yes,  it  is  decided.  I  will  call  in  Bell  Clinton  and  make  her 
happy  by  proposing.  {Eiscs,  goes  to  door  and  speaks.)  Mrs. 
Watson,  will  you  call  Miss  Clinton  ? 

Mi!S.  AVatso.v  (outside).    Yes,  sir. 

Washington.  Now  the  hour  of  importance  is  coming, — 
the  hour  which  shall  change  me  from  a  free  man  to  a  man 
bound  by  a  promise.  But  it  will  be  delightful  to  be  bound 
in  that  way.  I  know  I  shall  never  regret  the  step,  for  Bell 
is  a  tine  girl.  And  then  her  money— ah  !  yes,  that  is  a  very 
desirable  consideration.  I  am  only  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
and  some  may  say  that  I  am  too  young  to  marry ;  but  I 
don't  think  so.  Why  should  I  remain  single  any  longer 
when  four  young  and  beautiful  girls  are  ready  and  anxious 
to  marry  me  ?  Probably  some  of  them  are  a  few  years  older 
than  I,  but  that  makes  no  difference ;  and  I  know  I  could 
be  happy  with  any  one  of  them.  But  I  must  not  allow  my- 
self to  think  of  any  of  the  others  now.  I  have  decided  on 
Bell  Clinton,  and  the  matter  will  sodu  be  arranged.  I  will 
state  the  case  plainly  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  I  have  de- 
tided  that  she  would  suit  me  best.  I  think  it  better  to  be 
plain  and  take  an  honest,  straightforward  course  in  such 
matters.    Ah  !  she  comes. 

Enter  Bell  Clinton. 

Bf.i.t,.    Mr.  Wopps,  I  have  come  according  to  your  request. 

Washington  {aside).  How  she  blushes,  and  how  happy 
she  looks.  She  f)robal>ly  has  an  idea  that  I  am  about  to 
propose.  {To  Bell.)  Yes,  I  sent  for  you.  {Places chair.)  Be 
seated.  (Bell  seats  herself.)  I  will  proceed  to  tell  you  why  1 
have  called  you. 

Bell.     Yes,  I  was  somewhat  surjirised. 

Washington.  Yes,  and  delighted,  too,  I  have  no  doubt. 
Bell,  I  have  understood  for  some  time  Iiow  it  was.  I  knew 
yfiu  loved  me;  I  could  tell  it  by  the  way  you  looked  at  me 
T  have  sent  for  you  that  we  might  coiik;  to  an  nmlerstand- 
iug.     I  have  known  for  some  time  that  you  hjved  me,  but 

L'LL 


218  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELBCTIONS   No.   6. 

probably  you  did  not  know  that  the  three  other  ladies  who 
board  here  love  me  also. 

Bell.     No,  I  did  not  know. 

Washington.  I  knew  it  some  time  ago.  A  young  man 
can  very  often  tell  when  he  is  loved  by  the  way  the  young 
ladies  look  at  him.  I  know  that  the  young  ladies  do  not  in- 
tend it  to  be  known,  but  it  cannot  be  concealed.  However, 
I  may  say  that  there  are  not  many  young  men  ^ho  can  read 
aright  the  looks  of  the  young  ladies.  I  know  I  am  loved  by 
Eliza  Bellman,  Fanny  Lyons,  and  Annie  Harper,  and  it 
makes  me  feel  sad  to  pass  them  by.  But  what  can  I  do  ? 
You  know  I  cannot  marry  all  of  them.  I  have  selected  you, 
and  I  know  by  the  blush  on  your  cheek  that  you  feel  happy. 
I  thought  the  matter  over  for  some  time  before  I  came  to  a 
decision,  but  I  decided  in  your  favor  because  I  knew  you 
were  a  very  estimable  girl,  and  I  felt  sure  that  you  would 
Buit  me  better  than  either  of  the  others. 

Bell  {aside).  What  a  self-conceited  puppy  he  is!  But  I'll 
astonish  him. 

Washington.  Indeed,  you  are  so  pleasing  in  all  your  ac- 
tions that  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  keep  from  loving 
you.  And  now,  dear  Bell,  although  I  have  known  for  the 
past  month  by  your  looks  that  you  loved  me,  and  although 
I  can  see  by  your  countenance  now  what  the  answer  will 
be,  yet  I  suppose  it  will  be  well  enough  to  go  through  the 
formality  of  asking.  Then,  dear  Bell,  will  you  be  mine  ? 
Will  you  make  both  yourself  and  me  happy  by  saying  that 
you  will  be  my  wife?  {Pause;  Bell  doesn't  reply.)  You  do 
not  speak !  {Kneels  before  her  and  takes  her  haiid.)  Will  you 
not  speak  the  word  now,  dear  Bell? 

Bell.  Why  should  I  speak?  You  can  read  my  coun- 
tenance so  well,  Washington,  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak. 
You  have  read  my  thoughts  in  the  past — you  have  known 
by  my  looks,  you  say,  that  I  loved  you.  Why  need  I  say 
anything,  Washington  ? 

Washington.  You  needn't,  Bell — you  needn't.  I  under- 
stand you  and  I  am  so  happy.  I  knovt^  Eliza  Bellman  and 
Fanny  Lyons  and  Annie  Harper  v/ill  feel  sad,  but  you  are 
happy  and  so  am  I.  {Rises.)  Now,  dear  Bell,  I  will  seal  the 
engagement  with  a  kiss.     {Attempts  to  kiss  her.) 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMEXT.  219 

Bell  (starting  up).  No,  Washington,  not  yet.  Wait  until 
we  are  married. 

Washington.  Well,  I'll  wait  if  you  say  so.  But  I  have 
always  thought  that  it  was  perfectly  right  and  proper  to  seal 
the  engagement  with  a  kiss. 

Bell.  But  1  have  some  old-fashioned  notions,  and  must 
decline  to  kiss  you  until  after  we  are  married.    Now  I  will  go, 

Washington.     But  when  shall  we  be  married? 

Bell.  We  can  talk  that  over  at  some  future  time.  I  must 
hasten  away.  I  fear  you  will  see  too  much  happiness  in  my 
countenance  if  I  remain  longer.  Good-bye,  Washy.  Adieu 
for  a  short  time.  lExit  Bell. 

Washington.  Yes,  she  is  happy,  and  I  knew  she  would 
be.  Eliza  Bellman,  or  Fanny  Lyons,  or  Annie  Harper  would 
have  been  happy,  too,  if  they  had  been  selected.  But  they 
are  doomed  to  disai)pointment  and  I  know  they  will  feel 
sad.  I  know  I  am  a  handsome  young  man,  and  I  don't 
wonder  that  they  all  look  at  me  as  they  do.  They  would 
be  more  careful,  however,  as  to  the  way  they  look  at  me  if 
they  knew  I  could  read  their  thoughts  so  well.  Well,  I  am 
glad  I  have  decided.  Bell  is  a  very  fine  girl,  and  then  her 
money  will  be  a  great  help  to  me.  Of  course  I  wouldn't 
marry  her  for  her  money — oh,  no — l)ut  then  it  will  be  very 
nice  to  have  such  a  pleasant  wife  and  plenty  of  money,  too. 
She  might  have  allowed  me  to  kiss  her.  I  don't  quite  un- 
derstand that  part  of  it.  I  thought  when  people  engaged 
themselves  they  always  sealed  the  engagement  with  a  kiss. 
But  I  guess  it's  all  right.  She  says  she  has  some  old-fashioned 
notions  on  that  score,  and  would  prefer  not  to  kiss  me  until 
after  we  are  married.  Yes,  I  know  it  is  all  right,  and  I  am 
gla<l  that  1  have  found  such  a  pleasant,  even-tempered  girl 
f<jr  a  wife.  [Exit  Washington. 

Scene  II. — Same  room  as  before.    Eliza,  Fanny,  Bell,  and  Annie 

discovered,  seated. 

Bi:ll.  The  arrangements  are  now  all  comj)lete.  Play  your 
I)arts  well,  and  Mr.  Wopps  will  i>robably  be  considerably 
frightened.  I  told  John  Darley  about  the  affair,  and  lie 
said  lie  would  dress  himself  in  female  attire,  and  after  we 
had  frightened  him  considerably,  he  would  come  in  and 
claim  to  be  Washington's  wife. 


220  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

Eliza.    Oh,  won't  it  be  fun ! 

Fanny.  Yes,  and  it  will  serve  the  self-conceited  fop  ex- 
actly right. 

Annie.  Just  to  think  of  it !  He  said  we  were  all  in  love 
with  him,  and  he  had  known  it  for  a  long  time  by  the  way 
we  looked  at  him. 

Fanny.  I  think  I  shall  never  look  at  the  young  men 
again.  I  shall  be  afraid,  for  they  may  think  that  I  am  in 
love  with  them. 

Eliza.  Oh,  don't  make  any  rash  resolutions  of  that  kind. 
You  know  we  don't  often  find  a  young  man  so  shallow  and 
so  full  of  self-conceit  as  Washington  Wopps.  But  he's  com- 
ing, I  hear  his  footstep  in  the  hall. 

Enter  Washington. 

Washington.  Ah!  good  evening,  ladies.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  find  you  all  here. 

Eliza  {springing  up).  Washington  Wopps,  are  you  going 
to  desert  me  and  marry  Bell  Clinton  ? 

Fanny  {springing  up).  Washington  AVopps,  are  you  going 
to  desert  me  when  you  have  looked  at  me  in  such  a  way  as 
to  say  that  you  would  take  me  sometime  ? 

Annie  {springing  up).  Washington  Wopps,  are  you  going 
to  desert  me  after  all  the  loving  glances  I  have  bestowed 
upon  you? 

Washington.    Ladies — I— I  —I  don't  understand. 

Eliza,  Fanny,  and  Annik.     Yes,  you  do  understand! 

Beli;.  Now,  girls,  if  you  make  so  much  fuss  1  shall  wish  I 
had  not  told  you  about  it. 

Eliza.  Washington  Wopps,  you  mustn't  desert  me.  I 
couldn't  endure  it !  You  have  always  helped  me  bountifully 
at  the  table  to  cranberry  pie  and  apple  sauce,  and  1  always 
looked  lovingly  and  thankfully  at  you  when  you  did  so.  I 
couldn't  endure  it  if  you  should  turn  away  from  me  now ! 

Bell.  Now  Eliza,  don't  be  hard  on  Washington.  You 
know  he  couldn't  marry  you  and  me  too. 

Fanny.  Washington  Wopps,  I  don't  want  to  be  left  to 
pine  and  pine,  and  mourn  and  moui'n,  and  weep  and  weep, 
and  become  a  skeleton  !     Oh,  no,  I  cannot  be  left  that  way ! 

Bell.  Fanny,  you  are  very  unreasonable.  You  know 
Mr.  Wopps  cannot  marry  more  than  one  of  us. 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT. 


2?A 


Annie.  Washington  AVopps,  I  don't  want  you  to  leave 
me  in  this  boarding-huuse.  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  me 
here  where  I  have  spent  so  many  happy  hours  in  your  com- 
pany. Haven't  I  looked  at  you  often  and  often,  and  haven't 
you  seen  it  in  my  looks  that  I  loved  you  ?  Oh,  Washington 
Wopps,  you  surely  will  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  go  away  and 
marry  Bell  Clinton  and  desert  me. 

Washinciton.  But  I— I  never  said  T  would  marry  you.  I 
can't  marry  any  but  Bell.  Bell  is  mine,  and  the  rest  of  you 
will  have  to  go. 

Ei/ZA.  And  the  rest  of  us  will  have  to  go!  Oh,  no! 
Washington  Wopps !  oh,  no  !  Don't  say  that,  Washington, 
don't  say  it !  How  can  we  go  when  we  have  loved  you  so 
long  and  looked  at  you  so  tenderly?  Take  back  those 
words,  Washington,  take  them  back,  I  implore  you! 

Washington.  How  can  I  take  them  back  ?  I  have  prom- 
ised to  marry  Bell.  {Af;idt:.)  I  wish  she  bad  kept  the  mat- 
ter to  herself  and  not  have  raised  this  disturbance. 

Fanny.  Oh,  Washington,  do  not  say  that  the  rest  of  us 
will  have  to  go  !  Didn't  you  look  at  me  across  the  table  at 
breakfast,  at  dinner,  and  at  supper,  and  didn't  you  say 
plainly  in  those  looks  that  you  would  take  me  sometime? 
Of  course  you  did.  Then  if  you  marry  Bell  and  go  away,  I 
may  soon  go  and  lie  down  'neath  the  spreading  branches  of 
a  willow  tree.  Oh,  Washington,  Washington,  will  you  take 
this  step? 

Wash i  noto  v.    I  feel  very  sorry  for  you,  but  what  can  I  do  ? 

Fanny.  What  can  you  do,  Washington  Wopps  ?  You  can 
be  true  to  the  glances  you  have  cast  upon  me.  Didn't  you 
say  by  those  looks,  "  I  love  you,  Fanny  Lyons?"  And  didn't 
I  say  by  my  looks,  "I  love  you,  Washington  Wopi)s?" 

Annie.  Ah!  Washington,  you  know  how  sad  I  would  be 
if  you  were  pone.  Then,  Washington,  you  must  not  go. 
Wlio  woiild  (ill  my  plate  with  cold  potatoes  if  you  were 
pone?  Who  would  smilingly  cut  the  pie  if  you  were  gone, 
and  help  me  to  the  largest  i)iece?  Oh,  Washington,  don't 
let  anybody  say  of  me,  "She  anchored  her  hopes  to  this 
perishing  earth  by  the  chain  which  her  tenderness  wove." 

Washington'.  Tliertt's  no  use  in  talking;  I  can't  marry 
more  than  one  of  you.    I  know  you  are  all  jjleasant  girls,  but 


222  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

I  have  decided  and  my  choice  has  fallen  upon  Bell  Clinton. 
1  say  again,  I  will  marry  Bell ! 

Bh-LL.    Noble  Washy  !  my  Washy !    You  make  me  happy! 

"Eliza  {angrily) .  Don't  say  that,  Washington  Wopi>s !  How 
dare  you  say  that?  Washington  Wopps,  you  must  not  turn 
away  from  me  now,  or  I  will  sue  you  for  breach  of  promise. 

Fanny.  Oh,  "Washington,  will  you  leave  me— will  you  for- 
sake me  after  leading  me  on  and  causing  me  to  think  that 
the  day  would  come  when  I  could  call  you  mine  ?  ( Weeps.) 
Oh,  Washington— boo  hoo — I'm  crushed  down — boo  hoo — 
and  I  know— boo  hoo— I  can  never  be  happy  again — boo 
hoo !  Must  the  tender  glances— boo  boo — that  I  have  be- 
stowed upon  you — boo  hoo — be  lost  ? — boo  hoo !  I  feel  now 
— boo  hoo— that  I  shall  see  my  Washington  no  more— boo 
hoo !    Oh,  dear !  oh  dear— boo  hoo ! 

Washington.  Well,  now,  I  do  feel  sorry  for  yo-\,  and  if 
Bell  will  give  me  up,  1  believe  1  will  marry  you. 

Bell  {angrily).  Give  you  up,  Washington  Wopps !  What 
do  you  mean?  Would  you  really  ask  mo  to  do  that?  NVhy, 
what  kind  of  a  man  are  you  ?  Didn't  you  promise  to  love 
me  and  marry  me  ?  And  now  would  you  turn  away  from 
me  simply  because  another  girl  gets  to  whimpering  about 
you?  No,  Washington,  you  must  be  steadfast — you  must 
stand  like  an  anvil — you  must  be  true  to  me  or  there  will 
be  the  biggest  kind  of  a  breeze ! 

Washington  {aside).  It  appears  to  me  that  I  am  getting 
into  trouble.     What  had  I  better  do,  anyhow  ? 

Annie.  Washington  W^opps,  have  I  "  anchored  my  hopes 
to  this  perishing  earth  b)''  the  chain  which  my  tenderness 
wove?"  Answer  me  that, Washington  Wopps.  Can  you  desert 
me  and  flee  from  this  beautiful  boarding-house  ?  AVho  will 
be  my  friend  in  prosperity  as  well  as  in  adversity?  Wlio  will 
smile  so  lovingly  across  the  table  as  you  have  smiled  ?  Oh, 
Washington  Wopps,  don't  be  carried  away  by  that  Bell  Clin- 
ton !     I  would  be  a  kinder  and  a  more  congenial  companion. 

Washington.     I — I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Bell.  Well,  I  can  tell  you  what  to  do.  Stick  to  your 
promise  and  be  true  to  me.  Would  you  desert  me  simply 
because  these  foolish  girls  have  raised  a  disturbance  ?  Be  a 
man,  Washington ;  be  a  man ! 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  22!? 

Washington.    Yes,  I  will,  Bell ;  I  will  not  waver  again. 

Eliza.  Let  us  seize  the  villain,  then !  He  has  led  us  to 
believe  that  he  loved  us,  and  now  he  turns  away — he  basely 
deserts  us !     Let  us  scratch  his  eyes  out ! 

Annie  {advancing).     Yes,  that's  it,— let  us  scratch  his  eyes 

out! 

AVashington.  Oh,  now,  ladies,  do  not  get  up  a  disturb- 
ance.    Haven't  I  acted  honorably  ? 

Eliza,  Fanny,  and  Annie  (in  succession).  Honorably! 
{Laughing  mockingly.)     Ha!  ha! 

Washing  ION.  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  keep  you  from  falling 
in  love  with  me. 

Eliza.  If  you  didn't  intend  to  marry  us,  j  ou  should  not 
have  allowed  us  to  look  at  you  the  way  we  did. 

Washington.    I  ask  you  again,  didn't  I  act  honorably  ? 

Enter  John  Darlcy,  dressed  as  an  Irish  washerwoman. 

John.  Be  jabers,  no !  It  isn't  actin'  honorably  fur  yez  to 
run  away  fropa  me  an'  the  childer,  an'  lave  me  to  take  in 
washin' !  But  I  won't  do  it  any  longer !  I've  been  slavin' 
an'  washin'  long  enough,  Jim  Riley,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  take 
yez  home  an'  make  yez  support  me  an'  the  childer ! 

The  girls  all  raise  their  hands  in  astonishment. 

Bell.     What's  the  meaning  of  all  this? 

Eliza.     Well,  if  ever ! 

Fanny  and  Annie  (^opre^/ier).  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what 
does  it  mean? 

WASiiiNGroN.  It's  all  a  mistake.  I  don't  know  this  wo- 
man at  all. 

John.  Mistake!  Ye'll  foind  out  purty  soon  whether 
it's  a  mistake  or  not!  8hure,  an'  I'll  have  the  polace  afther 
yez  purty  quick  if  ye  don't  march  home.  An'  where  have 
yez  been,  Jim  Riley,  wid  yer  good  clothes  on  ?  Runnin' 
■  around  aftlier  the  young  girruls,  are  yez?  Well,  I'll  bring 
yez  to  yer  sinses.  D'yez  think  I'm  goin'  to  BU])port  mesilf 
an'  the  childer  by  takin'  in  washin'  an'  yez  runnin'  around 
afther  the  young  girruls? 

Washington  {to  the  girls).  It's  all  a  mistake.  I  never  saw 
this  woman  before.  {To  .fohn.)  You're  an  impostor !  Get 
out  of  the  house  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  your  talk! 


224  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   6. 

John.  An' is  it  me  ye're  a-talkin' to,  Jim  Riley?  Shure, 
an'  ye'd  betther  moind  what  ye're  sayin'.  Ye  can't  bam- 
boozle me.     Home  wid  yez ! 

Bell.     Yes,  if  that's  the  kind  of  a  man  you  are,  go  ! 

Washington.  I  protest.  I  tell  you  I'm  an  innocent  man. 
I  never  saw  this  old  Irish  washerwoman  before. 

John.  Don't  call  me  an  ould  Irish  washerwoman !  Be 
aff  wid  yez  now !     The  childer  will  be  wantin'  to  see  yez. 

Bell.     Yes,  out  of  my  sight ! 

Eliza.  And  out  of  my  sight !  Oh,  how  I'd  like  to  strangle 
the  man!     {To  John.)     What  did  you  say  his  name  was? 

John.  It's  Jim  Riley.  An'  shure,  I've  been  livin'  like  a 
widdy  fur  a  yare  an'  a  half,  an'  I've  been  takin'  in  washin', 
but  it's  not  fur  th6  likes  of  Jim  Riley  to  be  callin'  me  an 
ould  Irish  washerwoman.     I  won't  have  it  at  all,  at  all ! 

Eliza.  Jim  Riley !  Humph !  And  we  thought  it  was 
Washington  Wopps ! 

Fanny.  O  Washington,  Washington  !  did  you  look  at  me 
that  way  and  you  a  married  man  ?    ( They  surround  him.) 

Washington  {stepj^ing  baoJcwards  and  trying  to  get  away).  I 
Bay  it's  all  a  mistake.  I  never  saw  this  old  woman  before, 
Bell,  will  you  not  believe  me  ?    Oh,  will  you  not? 

John.  Shure,  we  haven't  a  bite  av  flour  nor  corn  male  in 
the  house,  an'  the  childer'll  be  cryin'  their  eyes  out.  Ye 
must  lave  these  young  girruls  an'  go  roight  along  wid  me. 

Annie.     Let  us  clutch  him ! 

Fanny.    Let  us  choke  him ! 

Eliza.    Let  us  kill  him ! 

Washington  (turning  to  run).    I  say  it's  all  a  mistake! 

John  [seizing  him  by  the  coat-tails).  Faith,  now,  an'  ye're  not 
goin'  to  git  away  from  me !     I'll  hould  on  to  yez ! 

Washington  runs  out,  John  holding  to  his  coat-tails;  girls  all  join 
in  a  laugh  at  his  discomfiture,  as  curtain  falls. 


DEAMATIO  SUPPLEMENT 

— TO — 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  No.  7. 


This  Supplement  will  be  forwarded  to  any  address,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
Ten  Cents  (or  three  copies  for  Twenty- Five  Cents),  by  addressing 
P.  Garrett  &  Co.,  Publishers.  708  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


THE  LONG-LOST  NEPHEW.*— Robert  C.  V.  Meyers. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mb.  Alexander  Calamus. 
Miss  Bella  Bashful. 
Mr.  Arteiur  Dauntless. 
Patty  Blossom,  the  maid. 
Andy  Evergreen. 

Scene — Room  in  Mr.  Citlamus^  house.    Among  the  other  furniture 
are  two  chairs  with  linen  slip-covers;  two  stools;  telephone. 

Patty  {setting  room  to  rights).  Oh,  dear!  to  have  a  lover 
you  never  set  your  eyes  on.  It's  like  being  the  most  beauti- 
ful creature  in  the  world,  and  yet  born  blind.  And  Aunt 
Amanda  has  managed  it  all  for  me  and  sends  my  accepted 
husband  to  me.  How  nice!  The  train  by  this  time  has  ar- 
rived with  him.  The  porter  at  the  station  was  to  telephone 
me  when  the  train  was  in.  In  a  little  while  I  shall  behold 
Andy  Evergreen,  who  fell  in  love  with  my  photograph  and 
popped  the  question  through  Aunt  Amanda.  Oh,  dear! 
how  queer  it  feels  to  be  expecting  your  husband  that  you've 
never  seen.  ( Telephone  Ml  rings.)  ( iood  gracious !  ( Runs  to 
telephone  and  calls  in  cup.)  Halloa!  {Listening,  then  culling.) 
Yes!  {Listening.)  The  train  is  in;  he  will  be  here  in  ten 
minutes!  {Calling  through  cup.)  Good-bye!  {Dropping  cup 
and  running  to  front.)     Oh,  how  my  heart  is  beating!     I  love 

♦Copyriglit,  1««0,  by  P.  Gakrett  ii  Co.     All  riglits  rcsorvcd. 
2l.L* 


194  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   7. 

him  better  than  if  I  had  seen  him,  I  am  sure  I  do.     And— 
Oh,  here  comes  Mr.  Calamus  with  Miss  Bella ! 

Exit  Fatty,  at  the  same  time  enter  Mr.  Calamus  and  Bella. 

Mr.  Calamus.     You  are  the  most  preposterous  girl  I  ever 

had  anything  to  do  with.    The  idea  of.  refusing  that  which 

•  I  know  to  be  for  your  best.    I  would  have  you  to  know, 

miss,  that  my  nephew  is  good  enough  to  be  the  husband  of 

a  queen ! 

Bella.  I  only  wish  that  he  was  the  husband  of  a  queen, 
or  even  a  princess. 

Mr.  C.  [mockingly.)   And  yet  he  is  not  good  enough  for  you ! 

Bella.  I  say  nothing  about  that.  I  only  say  that  I  will 
not  agree  to  marry  a  man  whom  I  have  never  met,  and 
whose  very  name  you  refuse  to  tell  me. 

Mr.  C.  And  /tell  you  that  you  shall  never  marry  a  man 
whom  /  have  never  met,  and  whose  name  you  decline  to  lell 
rue.  No,  miss ;  I  refuse  to  teU  you  my  nephew's  name  for 
the  simple  reason  that  I  will  not  have  him  subjected  to  in- 
sult when  he  visits  me.     You  shall  meet  him  as  a  stranger. 

Bella.  Which  he  certainly  is  to  both  of  us.  Because 
you  discover  a  nephew  whom  you  have  not  seen  for  twenty 
years,  you  wish  me  to  fascinate  him.   You're  a  nice  guardian ! 

Mr.  C.  And  a  nice  ward  you  are.  I'll  give  up  my  trust, 
miss,  do  you  hear  that?  I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  you.    Your  fortune  may  go  to  the  dogs  for  all  I  care ! 

Bklla.     So  many  thanks. 

Mr.  C.  When  my  poetic  mind  suggests  that  you  and  my 
long-lost  nephew  should  fancy  each  other,  you  begin  to  talk 
gibberish  about  a  gentleman  you  met  in  the  summer,  and 
will  not  so  much  as  tell  me  his  name. 

Bella.  No,  for  you  would  do  your  best  to  prevent  my 
seeing  him. 

Mr.  C.  I  certainly  should.  And  you  dare  to  place  this 
anonymous  individual  in  opposition  to  the  son  of  my  sister, 
who  iias  lived  in  India  for  twenty  years,  and  whom  I  quite 
accidentally  heard  of  two  or  three  days  ago  as  being  here. 
I  tell  you  it  shall  be  my  nephew  and  not  the  anonymous 
fortune-hunter ! 

BiXLA.  Your  nephew,  while  anonymous,  is  not  a  fortune' 
hunter,  it  is  true ! 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  lUu 

Mr.  C.    Thank  you ! 

Bella.  You  are  the  fortune-hunter,  guardy !  Your  ac- 
tions prove  that,  you  desire  my  poor  bit  of  money  for  a  man 
I've  never  seen,  whom  I  don't  want  to  see,  whom  I  should 
hate  if  I  did  see.  I  tell  you  that  I  care  for  some  one  else ; 
and  I'll  never  care  for  your  nephew  should  I  live  to  be  a 
thousand  years  old,  you  cruel,  cruel  old  man ! 

Mr.  C.  Very  well !  Then  I  have  to  tell  you  that  you  shall 
not  accept  the  anonymous  individual  though  I  tight  off  the 
marriage  until  I  am  proved  contemporary  with  the  most 
brittle  mummy  ever  palmed  off  on  a  side-show  of  a  circus. 

Bella.    Then  you  force  me  to  become  an  old  maid. 

Mr,  C.    You  force  me  to  become  a  mummy. 

Bella.    I  wish  I  could — I  wish  I  could,  for  then 

Mr.  C.  Then  you'd  marry  the  anonymous  individual,  you 
unfeeling  girl ! 

Bella.     I'm  not  an  unfeeling  girl ! 

Mr.  C.  You  are,  to  force  a  poor  old  man  into  mummy- 
hood! 

Bella.  I  hope  you'll  be  a  mummy !  I  hope  nobody'll 
buy  you  when  you  are  a  mummy  !  I  hope  they'll  have  to 
sell  you  at  auction.  [Exit  Bella,  weeping. 

]\Ir.  C.  {pacing  up  and  down.)  I  am  determined  to  protect 
her  from  fortune-hunters.  1  was  her  father's  best  friend ; 
my  poetic  mind  sees  so  much  beauty  in  a  wedding  between 
my  nephew  and  Bella,  because  her  father  loved  my  nephew's 
mother,  who  jilted  liim.  And  my  nephew  is  a  wealthy 
man ;  no  fortune-liunting  there.  Ah,  if  I  had  my  will  of 
the  anonymous  individual!  {Telephone  bell  rings.  Mr.  C. 
going  to  ii  calls  in  cup.)  Halloa!  {Listening;  calling.)  Yes. 
{Listening ;  calling.)  Ta!ta!  {Coming front.)  Hurrah!  He 
will  be  here  immediately.  Bella  does  not  know  he  is  com- 
ing, no  one  in  the  house  does.  I — I — I — let  me  go  and  put 
on  a  coat  that  is  fit  to  meet  a  long-lost  nephew  in.     [^Exit. 

Enter  Mr.  Dauntless,  looking  around. 

Mr.  Dauntlkss.  Strange !  Where  is  the  newly-discovered 
uncle?  What  nonsense  it  all  is, — quite  a  chapter  out  of  a 
three-volume  novel  of  half  a  century  ago.  His  letter  told 
me  to  tek'i)hone  hun,  and  I  did  so,  am   here,  and  came  in 


196  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

without  ringing,  as  he  advised  me  to  do ;  and  he  is  not  here. 
All  this  nonsense  takes  up  the  time  I  should  be  devoting  to 
the  tracing  of  the  darling  girl  I  met  in  the  summer,  and 
who  received  a  telegram  from  her  guardian  the  very  day  I'd 
meant  to  tell  her  I  couldn't  live  without  her.  I've  been 
three  days  searching  for  her,  and  a  queer  old  uncle  must 
hear  of  me  and  upset  my  plans  by  proposing  to  discover  me. 
Oh,  Bella  Bashful !  why  did  you  not  become  Bella  Bolder, 
and  at  least  give  me  your  address  and  an  invitation  to  call ! 

Enter  Patty,  crying  out  and  running  into  Mr.  Dauntless'  arms. 

Patty.  Oh,  you  duck !  How  is  Aunt  Amanda,  and  Cousin 
Silesia,  and  Uncle  Jabez,  and  the  cow,  and  the  little  pig 
with  a  black  ear  ?  "  Patty  Blossom,  will  you  take  this  man 
to  be  your  wedded  husband  ?"  "  Yes,  Mr.  Minister,  I  will." 
Oh!  oh! 

Mr.  D.  (aside.)  An  interesting  position  to  be  in.  This 
surely  cannot  be  my  newly-discovered  uncle.  {To  Patty.) 
My  dear  young  woman,  who  are  you  ? 

Patty.    Oh,  you  know  :  Aunt  Amanda 

Mr.  D.  Is  Aunt  Amanda  my  newly-discovered  uncle's  wife  ? 

Patty.    You  duck,  you're  joking  with  me. 

Mr.  D.    Ami? 

Patty.    Shall  it  be  to-day  or  to-morrow  ? 

Mr.  D.     Shall  what  be  to-day  or  to-morrow  ? 

Patty.    Oh,  you  know. 

Mr.  D.    Do  I  ? 

Patty  (laughing).    You're  real  funny. 

Mr.  D.     Am  I  ? 

Patty.    And  Aunt  Amanda  knows  I  like  funny  people. 

Mr.  D.    Does  she  ? 

Patty.  Good  gracious !  can't  you  say  anything  but  "  Do 
I?"     "Ami?"     "Does  she?"    Try! 

Mr.  D.     Shall  I? 

Patty.  My  stars!  has  Aunt  Amanda  sent  me  a  question- 
ing machine  instead  of  a  man  ? 

Mr.  D.    Has  she  ?    Why  ? 

Patty  (clapping  her  hands).  Oh,  I  know !  this  is  the  latest 
style  of  love-making ! 

Mr.  D.    Is  it? 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  197 

Patty.    Youknowit is, youduck.    But — but — oh, Gemini! 
I  hear  footsteps !     I  mustn't  be  found  here !     You — you — ask 
for  master.     You  should  have  come  in  the  back  way. 
'Mk.D.    Should  I?  ■ 

Patty.  I  can't  get  you  there  now.  INIake  believe  you're 
a  book-agent.     Here  is  my  young  lady  ! 

Paity  runs  off,  as  Bella  enters  unobserved  by  Mr.  Dauntless. 

Bella  (pressing  hand  to  her  heart).  My  heart — who  is  this 
man? 

Mu.  D.  Let  me  collect  my  scattered  energies !  Is  my 
newly-discovered  uncle  the  proimetor  of  a  private  mad- 
house ?  That  young  woman  is  the  victim  of  a  strange  hal- 
lucination ;  because  I  possess  two  rather  flat  feet  she  imagines 
that  I  am  a  duck.  And  Aunt  Amanda! — the  latest  style  of 
love-making !  —come  in  the  back  way ! — I  must  make  believe 
I  am  a  book-agent !  [Bella  edying  around,  sees  his  face,  then 
dasj)s  her  hands  delightedly.)  I — oil,  why  did  I  destroy  the 
little  sense  I  had  by  entering  nyion  this  finding  of  an  uncle  ? 
I — {turning  and  seeing  Bella)  Bella  Bashful ! 

BicLLA.    Mr.  Dauntless! 

Mr.  D.    I — I — really  I  am  faint — I — 

Bella.    How  did  you  get  here  ? 

Mr.  D.  I — I  am  not  certain  how  ;  possibly  through  the 
door-way. 

Bella.     No!  no!     I  mean  how  did  you  discover  me? 

Mr.  D.     With  my  eyes. 

Bella.    You  are  confused. 

Mr.  D.    I— I  am. 

Bella.  You  -  you  are.  Oh,  why  don't  you  make  a  speech 
longer  than  two  or  three  words  ? 

Mr.  D.     I'll  make  one  of  four, — Bella,  I  adore  you ! 

Bella  [rmming  into  Ids  arms).     Oh  ! 

Mr.  D.    But  you  here  ? 

Bella.    This  is  my  guardian's  house, — Mr.  Calamus'. 

Mk.D.     What  <1()  I  hear? 

Bella.     I  should  rather  ask  you  how  you  found  me? 

Mr.  D.  By  chance.  Bella,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that 
chance  is  a  very  good^friend  ? 

Beij.a.     I  trust  it  may  prove  so  in  our  case.     Listen  to  me ! 


198  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No. 


Mr.  D.    Rather  listen  to  me ! 
BhXLA.     No,  to  me.     Mr.  Calamus  is 
Mk.  D.     Mr.  Calamus  is  my 


Bella.  Inveterate  enemy.  He  despises  you.  I  dare  not 
so  much  as  tell  him  your  name.     He  only  knows  you  as 

Mr.  D.     As  his 

Bella.     As  the  gentleman  whom  I — I 

Mr.  D.     \yhom  you — you 

Bella.     L-O-V-E! 

Mr.  D.    You  angel ! 

Bella.    Oh,  no ;  I'm  not  an  angel. 

Mr.  D.    I  am  positive  that  you  are. 

Bella.  Not  quite ;  for  if  I  were  I  should  fly  away  from 
this  house;  and,  moreover,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  in  a 
terrible  pickle. 

Mr.  D.    Preserve  us ! 

Bklla.  Two  or  three  days  ago,  guardy  discovered  a  long- 
lost  nephew.  He  insists  that  I  shall  marry  the  nephew.  I 
hate  the  wretch,  for  I  belong  to  what  the  novelists  call 
Another.  The  long-lost,  I  have  accused  of  fortune-hunt- 
ing, using  his  uncle  as  a  medium  of  assistance.  I  have 
vowed  to  be  a  thousand  years  old  before  I  would  accept  the 
wretch,  and — and  (iveeping) 

Mr.  D.  (aside.)  A  light  strikes  in  upon  me.  Uncle  has 
discovered  me  for  the  express  purpose  of  keeping  his  ward's 
money  in  the  family ;  the  unprincipled  miser !  Bella  can 
only  think  the  long-lost  is  in  collusion  with  his  uncle.  My 
newly-discovered  uncle,  you  shall  never  know  me.  [Aloud.) 
Bella,  cheer  up !     I  will  save  you. 

Bella.  But  if  Mr.  Calamus  should  see  you  here,  who 
could  save  you  ? 

Mr.  D.  {aside.)  And  he  might  see  in  my  face  some  re- 
semblance to  his  sister,  my  mother.     Ahem  ! 

BKhi.A  {dnjing  her  eyes).  You  must  go.  Oh!  (Crying  out.) 
Too  late !  He  is  coming !  He  is  in  the  hall !  Hide  !  hide ! 
(ifr.  Dauntless  runs  about  seeking  a  hiding-place.)  Not  there ! 
not  there!  Oh  !  (Tearing  linen  slip  from  a  chair,  and  pulling 
a  stool  forward.)  The  only  thing  you  can  do  is  to  become  a 
chair  until  he  is  gone.  • 

Mr.  D.    Here!  herel 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  199 

Mr.  Dauntless  puts  on  slip  and  seats  himself  on  stool  in  form  of  a 
chair.     Enter  Mr.  Calamus. 

Mr.  C.  {looking  around.)  Not  here!  I  had  thought  the 
man  Patty  took  for  a  book-agent  might  be  he. 

Bella.     Guardy! 

Mr.  C.  Don't  presume  to  address  me,  miss !  You  have 
sutticiently  insulted  me  ah-eady. 

Bella  (her  hand  on  the  improvised  chair).  Insult  you  be- 
cause I  told  you  that  I  love  a  gentleman  who  is  unknown  to 
you  ?     (Mr.  Dauntless'  hand  under  the  slip  catches  hers.) 

Mr.  C.  Love !  At  nineteen,  a  summer  dream ;  at  forty,  a 
nightmare  !     I  tell  you,  Bella, 

Bella.     And  I  tell  you,  guardy, 

Mr.  C.    That  my  mind  is  made  up ! 

Bella.  So  is  nune !  I  insist  that  I  -will  refuse  your 
nephew  until  I  am  a  thousand  years  old. 

Mr.  C.    And  after  that? 

Bella.    The  deluge ! 

Mr.  C.  Wait  till  I  come  across  the  anonymous  individual ! 
Do  you  still  decline  to  tell  me  his  name? 

Bella.  What  is  the  name  of  your  fortune-hunting 
nephew  ? 

Mr.  C.  Forbear !  I  take  no  more  from  you.  As  it  stands, 
then,  I  am  resigned  to  becoming  a  mummy  in  order  to  cir- 
cumvent the  anonymous  individual.  {Eater  Patty,  looking 
about  her.)  Yes,  you  have  dried  and  spiced  your  helpless 
guardian,  miss. 

Patty.     ()1i,  where  is  the  duck? 

Bella.  The  man  who  marries  a  woman  for  her  fortune 
•  is  a  Midas  and  deserves  long  ears. 

Mr.  C.  AVould  you  i)resume  to  infer  that  there  are  don- 
keys in  my  family?  What!  It's  an  aspersion  on  my  man- 
hood! That  anonymous  individual  is  responsible  for  this! 
Air !  let  me  have  air ! 

Mr.  Calamus  rushes  out.     Pattj/ folloving  and  colling,  "Where  is 
the  book-agiiilf      Wlure  is  the  tiook-agenlf" 

Mr.  D.  {jumping  out  of.^lip.)  lU'lla,  you  are  an  angel.  Don't 
deny  it.  A  nd  as  for  that  curmudgeon  of  a  guardian,  let  him 
be  eternally  obfuscated. 


200  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

Bella.     In  the  meanwhile  how  am  I  to  withstand  his  im- 
portunities? 
Mk.  D.    Remember  what  a  friend  we  have  in  chance. 

Door  hell  rings. 

Bella.  Yes,  yes.  I  am  sure  that  the  long-lost  nephew  is 
expected  by  guardy.  That  bell!  that  may  announce  his 
arrival !    Become  a  chair  again  ! 

Mr.  D.  {aside.)  How  to  get  clear  of  all  this.  (Aloud.) 
Bella,  I  am  very  low;  cheer  me. 

Bella.  Cheer  you !  I'll  chair  you.  {Makes  a  chair  of  him 
as  before.  Enter  Andy  Evergreen.  Aside.)  What  a  hideous 
wretch !  It  is  he !  The  counterpart  of  his  uncle's  suppressed 
villainy. 

Andy.    Is  this  Mr.  Calamus'  ? 

Bella.     Sir? 

Andy  {starting ;  aside).  Her  Aunt  Amanda  said  she  was 
proud,  and  her  Uncle  Jabez  said  I  might  be  violent  if  she 
put  on  airs.     {Aloud.)     Miss,  your  uncle 

Bella.    He  is  no  uncle  of  mine,  and  never  shall  be ! 

A  T^DY  (aside).  I  must  be  violent.  (Aloud.)  Very  well, 
miss,  then  I 

Bklla.    Oh,  you! 

Andy.    Yes,  I. 

Bella.    I  detest  you! 

Andy.  What  I  want  to  say  is,  that  your  photograph  flat- 
ters you ;  don't  look  at  all  like  you,  you  minx ! 

Mr.  Dauntless  struggles  to  get  free. 

Bella  (to  the  improvised  chair).  No,  no,  Mr.  Dauntless,  you 
shall  not  expose  yourself  to  his  fury. 

Andy  (aside).     Is  she  speaking  to  a  piece  of  furniture? 

Bella.  As  for  you,  you  misguided  young  man  who  would 
propose  marriage  to  a  poor  girl  whose  photograph  may  have 
been  shown  to  you  by  a  nefarious  old  uncle,  I  .tell  you  No ! 

Andy.    Well,  you  are  a  high-flyer. 

Bella  (to  Mr.  Dauntless).  I  must  leave  the  room.  This 
nephew  is  a  coward  ;  I  can  scare  him  away.  Don't  divulge 
yourself.  I  shall  send  Patty  here  and  get  rid  of  the  man 
before  his  uncle  knows  he  is  here.     [Exit,  froiming  at  Andy. 

Andy.     Whispering  to  the   furniture!     AVhat  does  she 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  201 

moan?  {Growing  angry.)  If  I'd  known  this  was  the  way 
I'd  be  received  do  you  think  I'd  have  come  ?  Andy  Ever- 
green, you're  a  fool  to  let  a  woman  treat  you  so  badly.  Her 
letter  told  me  she'd  have  me.  Is  this  the  way  city  girls  act 
to  their  intendeds  ?  Uncle  Jabez  said  I  might  have  to  be 
violent.    Now  what  is  violence  ?     ( Thinking.) 

Mr.  D.  (peeping  out  at  him.)  What  am  I  to  make  of  this? 
Are  there  two  lung-lost  nephews?  He  wants  to  know  what 
violence  is,  does  he  ?  Let  him  wait  awhile ;  I'll  enlighten 
him.     Hist!     {Hiding.) 

Enter  Fatty. 

Patty  (aside).  My!  but  he's  a  nice  looking  chap.  I  like 
his  looks  better  than  the  other  one's  that  Aunt  Amanda 
picked  out  for  me.  And  where  is  the  other  one?  I  do  be- 
lieve he's  run  off;  he  did  look  silly  when  I  talked  to  him. 
But  I'll  look  for  him  later.     (Aloud.)     Oh,  sir ! 

Andy.     Eh?    Who  are  you? 

Patty.  The  lady  who  was  here  a  few  moments  ago  says 
she  hates  you. 

Andy.    She  told  me  so  herself. 

Patty  (aside).  Oh,  my  gracious!  but  I  like  his  looks. 
(Aloud.)  She  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take, and  you'd  better  go  away  before  she  finds  means  of 
forcing  you. 

Andy  (aside).  Now  this  is  the  kind  of  girl  I  like ;  sensible, 
not  proud.     (Aloud.)     And  who  are  you  ? 

Patty.     Who?    I? 

Andy.     Are  you  engaged  to  be  married  ? 

Patty.    I  engaged  myself  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago. 

Andy.    Do  you  like  him? 

Patty.     I  called  him  a  duck  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him. 

Andy.     AVhen  was  that? 

Patty.     About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  I  told  you. 

Andy  (aside).  Humph!  they  court  rapidly  in  the  city. 
(Aloud.)     You  called  him  a  duck,  eh?     Well,  I'm  no  duck. 

PATfY.     Oh,  I  don't  know. 

Andy.  Don't  you?  Young  woman,  I  know  you  as  well 
as  I  know  a  ccirtain  otlier  young  woman  whom  I  came  here 
to  meet,  expecting  to  marry  her.  If  you  can  find  in  me 
stronger  traces  of  a  duck  than  you  found  in  him  whom  you 


202  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

met  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  say  so,  and  I  will  let  the  other 
young  woman  go. 

Patty.     You  came  to  see  a  young  woman  who {Enter 

Mr.  Calamus.)     Good  gracious!     {Flies  to  dusting  furniture.) 

Mr.  C.     My  long-lost  nephew  !     {Seizes  Andy.) 

Andy.     Help!     Murder!     Fire! 

Mr.  C.  My  dear  boy,  I  have  expected  you ;  my  poetic 
mind  has  gone  out  to  you.  I  love  you  as  a  son.  I {Em- 
bracing him  again.) 

Andy.    Help!     Murder!    Fire! 

Patty  is  vigorouslg  dusting  chair  formed  by  Mr.  Dauntless  and  he 
fights  off  her  brush;  she  does  noi  notice,  as  she  is  busily  watching 
Mr.  Calamus  and  Andy. 

Mr.  C.  Your  bride  is  awaiting  you.    When  you  have  met 

her 

Andy.  I  have  met  her. 

Mr.  C.  Then  she  was  here  when  you  arrived  ? 

Andy.  She  was.    A  haughty,  proud 


Mr.  C.  Yes,  yes.  But  pride  is  a  becoming  quality  in  a 
young  woman.  Think  nothing  of  her  manner,  my  boy ;  the 
oddity  of  her  position  may  have  something  to  do  with  it. 
I  am  glad  you  apprehend  me  without  any  explanation, — you 
understand  that  I  want  you  to  marry  her,  eh  ?  It  is  very 
brilliant  of  you.  Really  I  must  embrace  you  once  more  {env- 
bracing  him). 

Andy.    Help !    Murder !    Fire ! 

Enter  Bella. 

Mr.  C.    Bella,  allow  me  to  present  to  you 

Bella.  I  have  already  met  the  gentleman.  He  may  re- 
main your  guest ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  But  as 
my  suitor  {crossing  to  chair  formed  by  Mr.  Dauntless),  never! 

Andy.    If  it  comes  to  that,  who  cares? 

Mr.  C.  My  dear  nephew,  leave  this  to  me.  Bella,  as  for 
you  and  your  anonymous  admirer 

Andy.  Has  she  an  anonymous  admirer?  Then  I  see  my 
way  clear.     I  give  her  up.     {Kisses  his  hand  to  Patty.) 

Patty  {aside).     He's  more  of  a  duck  than  the  other  one. 

Mr.  C.  {to  Bella.)  You  see  what  you  have  done.  {To 
Andy.)  No,  it  shall  be  as  I  say.  You  are  the  accepted 
suitor  of  this  preposterous  girl.    I  must  embrace 


DRAMATIC  SUrPLEMEXT,  203 

Andy.  Not  me !  {Eludes  him,  hiding  behind  furniture,  Mr. 
Calamus  following  him  up.) 

Bella  {to  Mr.  Dauntless).  I  will  contrive  a  way  to  get  you 
safely  out, — myself  too.  {To  Mr.  Calamus.)  Marry  him  !  I 
will  become  his  assassin  first !  [^Exit  Bella,  tragically. 

Mr.  C.  You  will,  will  you  ?  You  will  not  listen  to  reason 
yet?  (7b  Andy.)  My  dear  boy,  do  you  remain  here.  I  will 
go  and  have  a  little  conversation  with  that  preposterous 
girl.  [Exit  Mr.  Calamus. 

Andy.  And  who  in  the  world  is  he  ?  This  is  proposing 
to  a  girl  with  a  vengeance !  I  am  his  long-lost  nephew,  am 
I  ?  The  man's  an  idiot,  and  the  girl's  a  raving  maniac.  I 
will  go  at  once.  And  won't  her  Uncle  Jabez  pay  for  it? 
{Seeing  Fattij.)  I  had  forgotten  you.  Now  if  it  were  only 
you !  Come !  you  haven't  told  me  if  I  am  more  of  a  duck 
than  the  other  fellow. 

Patty.  I — I  fear  for  your  life ;  I  never  saw  the  young 
lady  so  bad  before.  She  promised  to  become  your  assassin. 
She's  a  truthful  girl  in  keeping  her  promises. 

Andy.     She  is,  is  she?    Then  I'm  a  gone  gosling. 

Patty.     Oh,  don't  call  yourself  a  gosling. 

Andy.    I  must  be  one  or  else  I'd  be  something  like  a  duck. 

Patty.     You're  not  so  very  much  unlike  a  duck. 

Andy.     More  of  a  duck  than  the  other  fellow  ? 

Patty.    Oh,  go  !     She'll  do  you  a  harm. 

Andy.  I'll  not  stir  till  you  tell  me  I'm  more  of  a  duck 
than  the  other  fellow.    She  may  kill  me,  but  here  I  stay. 

Patty.    Oh,  do  go ;  for  my  sake  ! 

Andy.    Am  T  more  of  a  duck  than  the  other  fellow? 

Patty.  You're  more  of  a  duck  than  the  whole  world ! 
there !     But  you're  in  danger 

Andy.    Of  becoming  dead  poultry  ? 

Patty.  Too  late!  She's  coming!  She  has  a  concealed 
deadly  weapon,  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  must  hide  till  I  get  her 
away.     But  wliere,  where,  where  {looking  about)? 

Andy  {"running  amongst  Die  furniture) .  AVhere,  where,  where, 
to  escape  being  turned  into  dead  ])Oultry? 

Patpy.  Here,  here,  here  !  {Tearing  slip  corer  from  the  other 
chair,  })utling  it  over  Andy,  and  sealing  him  on  stool,  making  chair 
of  him. 


204  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

Mr.  D.  (looking  on ;  asuie.)  He's  a  duck,  too.  I  can't  make 
head  nor  tail  of  it.     {Hides  again.) 

Enter  Bella,  carrying  a  large  pair  of  shears. 

Bella  (aside).  I  think  I  can  frighten  him  into  believing 
me  a  mad  woman,  at  any  rate.  (Brandishing  shears  excitedly 
and  looking  around.)  Where  is  he  ?— where  is  the  bridegroom 
elect  ?    Why  he  is  gone ! 

Patty.     I — I  think  he  was  afraid  of  you,  Miss,  and 

Enter  Mr.  Calamus,  highly  excited. 

Mr.  C.  Desist,  you  terrible  creature !  Would  you  add 
bloodshed  to  your  other  crimes  of  promising  to  wed  a  man  I 
have  never  seen,  and  the  more  heinous  one  of  making  a 
mummy  of  me?  (Looking  over  the  room.)  Where  is  he? — 
where  is  the  dear  boy  ?  Ah  !  you  threatened  his  life !  You 
Lucretia  Borgia !  you  Clytemnestra !  you  Judith !  you  have 
a  pair  of  shears, — you  have  murdered  my  long-lost  nephew ! 

Mr.  Calamus  sinks  into  chair  fanned  by  Mr.  Dauntless,  who  lets 
him  fall  to  floor.  Mr.  Calamus  scrambles  to  his  feet,  seizes  and 
tears  cover  from  Mr.  Dauntless.    Bella  and  Fatty  scream. 

Mr.  C.     Who  is  this  man  ?  who  is  this  man  ? 

Bella.     Harm  him  not !     I  am  his  protector ! 

Mr.  C.  Stab  if  you  must  this  old  gray  head,  but  spare  my 
long-lost  nephew,  he  said.     Who  is  this  man  ? 

Bella.     He  is  the  man  I  will  marry! 

Mr.  C.    The  anonymous  individual? 

Patty.     He  is  the  man  my  Aunt  Amanda • 

Bella.  Thank  you,  Patty,  for  trying  to  shield  him.  Mr. 
Calamus,  he  loves  me  ! 

Mr.  C.     Speak,  villain ! 

Mr.  D.    I  can't ;  I'm  deaf  and  dumb. 

Mr.  C.  Villain!  Destroyer  of  my  long-lost  nephew's 
rights  and  privileges,  I  have  you  at  last !  Bella,  put  those 
shears  away ;  what  are  shears  to  me,  murderess  ?  Add  my 
corpse  to  the  one  you  have  already  made  !  (Bella  lets  shears 
fall  and  covers  her  face  with  her  ha7ids,  luhile  Fatly  hovers  about 
the  chair  formed  by  Andy.)  Oh,  spoiler  of  my  poetic  mind ! 
ruiner  of  the  chances  of  the  man  whose  mother  was  once 
beloved  by  the  father  of  this  murderess,  sit  there.     ( Throw- 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  205 


ing  him  into  chair  formed  by  Andy,  u'ho  rolls  to  floor  and  struggles 
Old  of  linen  slip.)     My  long-lost  nephew !  uninjured  ! 

Andy.  Help!  Murder!  Fire!  I'm  nobody's  long-lost 
nephew  I  And  I'm  done  with  love-making,  if  this  is  the 
way  it's  carried  on  in  the  city.  I'm  going  home  as  sure  as 
my  name  is  Andy  Evergreen  ! 

Patty.    What!     Andy  Evergreen? 

A.NDY.  Yes,  and  though  Patty  Blossom's  Aunt  Amanda 
said  she'd  let  me  have  her  niece 

Patty  {going  to  him).  Her  niece  will  have  you ;  I'm  Patty 
Blossom ! 

Andy'.     You  duckling! 

IMr.  C.     But— but 


Bella.     I  don't  untlerstand 


Mr.  C.     ^Yhere  is —     ( 7h  Mr.  Dauntless.)     Who  are  you  ? 

Mr.  D.  I  am  tlie  accepted  husband  of  your  ward,  Bella 
Bashful.     {Taking  Bella's  hand.) 

Mr.  C.  Out  upon  you,  sir!  The  correct  suitor  will  soon 
arrive ;  my  poetic  mind  tells  me  he  will ! 

Mr.  D.     He  has  already  arrived.     Belhi,  who  am  I  ? 

Bklla.     Why — why 

Patty.     1  thought  at  first  he  was  a  duck. 

Andy'.     Instead,  he's  made  geese  of  us  all. 

Mr.  D.    Bella,  I  insist  upon  knowing  who  I  am. 

Bella.     You  are  my  accepted  husl^and,  Arthur  Dauntless. 

Mr.  C.  Arthur  Dauntless?  I  see  it — I  see  it!  She  did 
not  know  my  nephew's  name!  slie  did  not  know  he  was 
coming!     Oh!  oli  {laughing)  I     Such  a  joke!  such  a  joke! 

Bklla.  Arthur  Dauntless,  is  it  possible  tliat  you  are  my 
guardian's 

Mr.  C.    Long-lost  nephew  !    Ha !  ha ! 

Mr.  D.  I'll  explain  it  all  after  awliile.  For  though  I  may 
be  the  long-lost  nephew  of  my  uncle,  I  am  also  the  fiance  of 
your  guardian's 

Bella.     Newly  found  niece.  ^ 

Mr.  C.     Hal  ha!  hal 

f  Curtain  falls. 


206  ONE    HUNDRED    CHOICE   SELECTIONS    No.    7. 

GHOST  SCENE  FROM  "HAMLET."— Sh a kspeare. 
[Extracts  from  Act  I,  beginning  with  a  part  of  Scene  II.] 

CHARACTERS. 

King.  Marcellus. 

Queen.  Bernardo. 

Hamlet.  Ghost. 

Horatio.  Attendants. 

A  room  of  state  in  the  Casi'e.     King,  Queen,  Hamlet,  and  aitaid- 
~  ants  discovered. 

Queen.     Good  Hamlet,  ca.st  thy  nighted  color  off, 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not  forever  with  thy  vailed  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust. 
Thou  knowst  'tis  common ;  all  that  lives  must  die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Hamlet.     Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

QuEEX.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Hamlet.     Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is ;  I  know  not  seems. 
'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black. 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye. 
Nor  the  dejected  haviour  of  the  visage. 
Together  with  all  forms,  moods,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly ;  these  indeed  seem, 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play : 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show ; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

KixG.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Hamlet, 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father : 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father ; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his ;  and  the  survivor  bound 
In  filial  obligation  for  some  term 
To  do  obsequious  sorrow  :  but  to  persever 
In  obstinate  condolement  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness ;  'tis  unmanly  grief; 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  Heaven, 
A  heart  unfortified,  a  mind  impatient, 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  207 

An  understanding  simple  and  unschooled. 

For  what  we  know  must  be  arid  is  as  common 

As  any  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense, 

Why  should  we  in  our  peevish  opposition 

Take  it  to  heart  ?    Fie !  'tis  a  fault  to  Heaven, 

A  fault  against  the  dead,  a  fault  to  nature. 

To  reason  most  absurd  ;  whose  common  theme 

Is  death  of  fathers,  and  who  still  hath  cried, 

From  the  first  corse  till  he  that  died  to-day, 

"This  must  be  so."     We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 

This  unprevailing  woe,  and  think  of  us 

As  of  a  father ;  for  let  the  wcs'ld  take  note, 

You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne, 

And  with  no  less  nobility  of  love 

Than  that  which  dearest  father  bears  his  son 

Do  I  impart  toward  you.     For  your  intent 

In  going  back  to  school  in  Wittenberg, 

It  is  most  retrograde  to  our  desire  ; 

And  we  beseech  you,  bend  you  to  remain 

Here,  in  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  our  eye. 

Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

QuEEM.     Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Hamlet: 
I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 

Hamlet.     I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 

King.     Why,  'tis  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply  ; 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come; 
This  gentle  and  unforced  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart :  in  grace  whereof, 
No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day, 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell. 
And  the  king's  rouse  the  heavens  shall  bruit  again, 
Kespeaking  earthly  thunder.    Come  away. 

\_Exnml  (ill  hut  ITamlet. 

Hamlet..    Oh,  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fixed 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter!     O  God!  0  God! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world! 
Fie  on  't!  oh,  fie!  'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this! 
liut  two  months  dead!  nay,  not  so  much,  not  two: 
So  excellent  a  king ;  that  waSj  to  this, 


208  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

Hyperion  to  a  satyr ;  so  loving  to  my  mother 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  fare  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth  ! 
Must  I  remember  ?  why,  she  would  hang  on  him, 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on  ;  and  yet,  within  a  month- 
Let  me  not  think  on  't— Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !— 
A  httle  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 
With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears, — why  she,  even  she — 
O  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourned  longer--married  with  my  uncle, 
My  father's  brother,  but  no  more  like  my  father 
Than  I  to  Hercules.     Within  a  month  ? 
Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Ilad  left  the  Hushing  in  her  galled  eyes, 
81ie  married.     Oh,  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 
With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets! 
It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good  ; 
But  breaks  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue. 

Enter  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo. 

Horatio.     Hail  to  vour  lordship! 

Hamlet.  I  a™  S^^d  to  see  you  w^ll, 

Horatio,— or  I  do  forget  myself. 

HoH  KTio     The  same,  mv  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 

Hamlet.     Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I'll  change  that  name  with 
vou: 
And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio  ?— 

Marcellus  ? 

Marcellus.     My  good  lord—  ,^     t,  i   \ 

Hamlet.     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.      [To  Bernardo.) 
Good  even,  sir. — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg? 

Horatio.     A  truant  dispo-sition,  good  my  lord. 

Hami.kt.     I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so, 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence. 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Aicainst  yourself:  I  know  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 
We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depart. 

Horatio.     Mv  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 

Hamlet.    I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student , 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  209 

I  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  weddinfr. 

lloHATio.     Indeed,  my  lord,  it  followed  hard  upon. 

Hamlet.    Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio !  the  funeral  baked-meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  1  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio! 
My  flither !— methinks  I  see  my  father. 

Horatio.     Oh,  where,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet.  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Horatio.     I  saw  him  once ;  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Hamlkt.     He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
1  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Horatio.     J\ly  lord,  I  think  1  saw  him  yesternight. 

Hamle'\    Saw?  who? 

Horatio.    My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Hamlet.  The  king  my  father ! 

Horatio.    Season  your  admiration  for  awhile 
With  an  attent  ear,  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Hamlet.  For  God's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Horatio.    Two  nights  together  had  these  gentlemen, 
INIarcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch. 
In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night. 
Been  thus  encountered.     A  figure  like  your  father, 
Armed  at  point  exactly,  cap-a-pie, 
Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them :  thrice  he  walked 
By  their  opjtressed  and  fear-surprised  eyes. 
Within  his  trunclieon's  lengtli ;  whilst  they,  distilled 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear. 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 
In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did  ; 
And!  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch: 
W^here,  as  they  had  delivered,  both  in  time. 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 
The  apparition  comes.     I  knew  your  father; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Hamlet.  But  where  was  this? 

Maucellus.  My  lord,  upon  tlie  platform  where  we  watched. 

Hamlet.    Did  you  not  speak  to  it? 

Horatio.  My  lord,  I  did; 

But  answer  made  it  none:  yet  once  methought 
It  lifted  up  its  head  and  did  address 
2mm 


210  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIOSS  No.   7. 

Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  ; 
But  even  then  the  morning  cock  crew  loud. 
And  at  the  sound  it  slirunk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanished  from  our  sight. 

Hamlet.  'Tis  verj^  strange. 

Horatio.    As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  'Us  true ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Hamlet.     Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo.     We  do,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.    Arm'd,  say  you? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo.     Arm'd,  my  lord, 

Hamlet.    From  top  to  toe  ? 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo.     My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Hamlet.    Then  saw  you  not  his  face? 

Horatio.     Oh,  yes,  my  lord  ;  he  wore  bis  bsaver  up. 

Hamlet.    What,  look'd  he  frowningly? 

Horatio.    A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger 

Hamlet.    Pale,  or  red  ? 

Horatio.    Nay,  very  pale. 

Hamlet.  And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you? 

Horatio.    Most  constantly. 

Hamlet.  I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Horatio.    It  would  have  much  amazed  you. 

Hamlet.   -Very  like,  very  like.     Stayed  it  long? 

Horatio.    While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a 
hundred. 

Marcellus  and  Bkrnardo.    Longer,  longer. 

Horatio.     Not  when  I  saw  't. 

Hamlet.  His  beard  was  grizzled ?  no? 

Horatio.    It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silvered. 

Hamlet.  I'll  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance  'twill  walk  again. 

Horatio.  I  warrant  it  will. 

Hamlet.     If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
I'll  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal'd  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night. 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue  : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  you  well ; 


DRAMATIC  SU-PPLEMEXT.  211 

Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  your  honor. 

Hamlet.     Your  love.s,  as  mine  to  you  ;  farewell. 

lExeunt  all  but  Hamlet. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms  !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play :  would  the  night  were  come  I 
Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul ;  foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes.     lExit. 


Scene  IV. —  The  platform.  Enter  Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcellus. 

Hamlet.    The  air  bites  shrewdly ;  it  is  very  cold. 

Horatio.     It  is  a  nipjjing  and  an  eager  air. 

Hamlet.     What  hour  now? 

Horatio.  I  think  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Hamlet.     Xo,  it  i.>  struck. 

Horatio.     Indeed?    I  heard  it  not:   it  then  draws  near 
the  season 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

[_A  flourish  of  trumpds  and  ordnance  shot  off  ivhhin. 

What  does  this  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet.      The  king  doth  wake  to-night  and  takes  his 
rouse, 
Keeps  wassail,  and  the  SAvaggering  up-spring  reels; 
And  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

HoitATio.  Is  it  a  custom? 

Hamlet.     Ay,  marry  is  't; 
But  to  my  mind,  though  I  am  native  here 
And  to  the  manner  born,  it  is  a  custom 
More  honored  in  the  Ijreach  than  the  observance. 
This  heavy-headed  revel  east  and  west 
Makes  us  traduced  and  taxeil  of  other  nations: 
They  clepe  us  drunkards,  and  with  swinish  phrase 
Soil  our  addition  ;  and  indeed  it  takes 
From  (jur  adiievcmcnts,  th^jugh  performed  at  height, 
The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attriljute. 
So,  oft  it  cliances  in  particular  men, 
That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them, 
As,  in  their  birth — wherein  they  are  n(jt  guilty, 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin — 


212  ONE  HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

By  the  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion, 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason, 
Or  by  some  habit  that  too  much  o'er-leavens 
The  form  of  plausive  manners,  that  these  men, 
Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect, 
Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  star, — 
Their  virtues  else— be  they  as  pure  as  grace. 
As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo — 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault :  the  dram  of  eale 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  of  a  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal. 

HoKAiio.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes! 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hami.et.    Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  usi — 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damned? 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven  or  blasts  from  hell  ? 
Be  thy  intents  wicked  or  charitable? 
Thou  comest  in  such  a  questionable  shape 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee :  I'll  call  thee  Hamlet, 
King,  father ;  royal  Dane,  oh,  answer  me ! 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance  ;  but  tell 
Why  thy  canonized  bones,  hearsed  in  death. 
Have  burst  their  cerements ;  why  the  sepulchre, 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  inurned. 
Hath  oped  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws. 
To  cast  thee  up  again.     What  may  this  mean. 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Making  night  hideous ;  and  we  fools  of  nature 
So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls? 
Say,  why  is  this?  wherefore?  what  should  we  do? 

\_Ghost  beckons  Hamlet, 

Horatio.    It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Marcellus.     Look,  with  what  courteous  action 
It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground ; 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Horatio.  No,  by  no  means. 

IlAiJLiiT.     It  will  not  speak ;  then  I  will  follow  it. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT. 


213 


Horatio.    Do  not,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee ;  , 
And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being,  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? 
It  waves  me  forth  again  ;  I'll  follow  it. 

Horatio.    What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea, 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
"Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason 
And  draw  you  into  madness?  think  of  it; 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation, 
"Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain 
That  lo(jks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath. 

Hamlet.  It  waves  me  still, — 

Go  on  ;  I'll  follow  thee. 

Marcellus.    You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Hold  off  your  hands ! 

Horatio.    Be  ruled  ;  you  shall  not  go. 

Hamlet.  My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve. 
Still  am  I  called. — Unhand  me,  gentlemen. 
By  heaven,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me! 
I  say,  away ! — Go  on  ;  I'll  follow  tliee. 

[Exetint  Gliost  and  Hamlet. 

Horatio.    He  waxes  desi)orate  with  imagination. 

Makcei.lus.     Let's  follow;  'tis  not  lit  thus  to  obey  him. 

HoKATio.     Have  after.— To  what  issue  will  tliis  come? 

Marcellus.    Something  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark. 

HoKATio.     Heaven  will  direct  it. 

Marcellus.  Nay,  let's  follow  him.   \^Exeunt. 


Scene  Y.— Another  paH  of  the  platform.      Enter-  Ghost  and 

Hamlet. 

Hamlet.    Where  wilt  thou  lead  me?  speak;  I'll  go  no 

furtlicr. 
GnosT.     Mark  me. 
IlAMurr.  1  will. 

GuosT.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 


214  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   7. 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Hamlet.  Alas,  poor  ghost ! 

Ghost.     Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Hamlet.  Speak  ;  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.    So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Hamlet.    What? 

Ghost.     I  am  thy  father's  spirit, 
Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 
And  for  the  day  confined  to  fast  in  fires. 
Till  the  foul  crimes  done  in  my  days  of  nature 
Are  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  young  blood, 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres, 
Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part. 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine ; 
But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 
To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood.     List,  list,  oh,  list! 
If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love — 

Hamlet.     0  God ! 

Ghost.    Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnattiral  murder. 

Hamlet.     Murder! 

Ghost.     Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 

Hamlet.     Haste  me  to  know  't,  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  shouldst  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  roots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf, 
Wouldst  thou  not  stir  in  this.     Now,  Hamlet,  hear: 
'Tis  given  out  that,  sleeping  in  my  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abused  ;  but  know,  thou  noble  youth. 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Hamlet.  Oh,  my  prophetic  soul ! 

My  uncle ! 

Ghost.    Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate  beast, 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT. 

With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts-- 
O  wicked  wit  and  gifts,  that  have  tlie  power 
So  to  seduce ! — won  to  his  shameful  lust 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming-virtuous  queen ; 

0  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-olf  was  there ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  with  the  vow 

1  made  to  her  in  marriage,  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine  ! 

But  virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  moved. 

Though  lewdness  court  it  in  a  shape  of  heaven, 

So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  linked, 

Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bed, 

And  prey  on  garbage. 

But  soft?  methinks  I  scent  the  morning  air; 

Brief  let  me  be.     Sleeping  within  my  orchard. 

My  custom  always  in  the  afternoon. 

Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 

With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon  in  a  vial, 

And  in  the  porches  of  my  ears  did  pour 

The  leperous  distilment ;  whose  effect 

Holds  sucli  an  enmity  with  blood  Of  man 

That  swift  as  (juicksilver  it  courses  througii 

The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body, 

And  with  a  sudden  vigor  it  doth  posset 

And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk. 

The  thin  and  wholesome  blood :  so  did  it  mine ; 

And  a  most  instant  tetter  barked  about. 

Most  lazar-like,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust, 

All  my  smooth  body. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand 

Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  dispatched  ; 

Cut  ofi'  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 

Unhouseled,  disappointed,  unaneled, 

No  reckoning  made,  but  sc^nt  to  my  account 

Witli  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head  : 

(Jli,  horrible!  oh,  horrible!  most  horrible  I 

If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not; 

Let  not  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be 

A  couch  for  luxury  and  damned  incest. 

But,  liowsoever  thou  pnrsuest  this  act. 

Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 

Against  thy  mother  aught ;  leave  her  to  Heaven 


215 


216  ONE    HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.    7. 

And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  prick  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once ! 
The  glow-worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near. 
And  gins  to  pale  his  unefl'ectual  tire ; 

Adieu,  adieu !     Hamlet,  remember  me.  lExit. 

Hamlet.   Oh,  all  you  host  of  heaven  !  O  earth!  what  else? 
And  shall  I  couple  hell ?    Oh,  fie !     Hold,  hold,  my  heart; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stitHy  up.     Eemember  thee ! 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee ! 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records. 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past. 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmixed  with  baser  matter :  j  ;s,  by  Heaven ! 
O  most  pernicious  woman  ! 

0  villain,  villain,  smiling,  damned  villain ! 
My  tables, — meet  it  is  I  set  it  down, 

That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain; 

At  least  I'm  sure  it  may  be  so  in  Denmark. —  [  Writing. 

So  uncle,  there  you  are. — Now  to  my  word ; 

It  is  "Adieu,  adieu!  remember  me." 

1  have  sworn  't.  [JErtt 


DHAMATIO  SUPPLEMENT 

— TO— 

One  Hundred  Choice  Selections.  No.  8. 

COMPOSED  ENTIRELY  OF 

TEMPERANCE  DIALOGUES  AND  PLAYS. 


THE  CONQUEROR  CONQUERED.— Geo.  S.  Burleigh. 

CHARACTERS. 
Intemperance,  a  young  man  grimly  disguised. 
Followers  "I 

AND  y  Some  flashily,  others  shabbily  dressed. 

Servants,     J 

Tesiperance,  a  young  lady  in  white. 
Attendants,  girls  and  boys  neatly  dressed. 

Scene. — A  gin  palace  mth  bottles  and  glasses,  in  the  midst  a 
puncheon  for  throne.  ErAer  Intemperance  itith  a  flagon  of  red 
wine,  and  a  gnarled,  thorny  rod  for  scepter  ;  servants  following 
with  clanking  chain  and  a  black  flag. 

Intemperance. 

When  man,  once  pure,  from  childish  innocence  fell, 

And  lost  the  smilinji  countenance  of  God, 
Out  of  the  yawning  deeps  of  passion's  hell 

Fiercely  I  rose,  and  earth's  fair  fields  I  trod. 
Though  blooming  gardens  withered  at  my  look, 

And  homes  of  l)eauty  at  my  touch  decayed, 
Though  love  turned  madness,  joy  my  paths  forsook, 

And  wailing  miseries  thronged  the  track  I  made, 
Man  knew  not,  knows  not,  but  shall  know  ere  long, 

Whenoe  I  am  come,  and  what  I  am,  iiervcrse, — 

Copyriglit,  1K8(;,  by  V.  GarIiett  &  Co. 

Ndtice. — This  supplement  will  l>p  sent  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents 
by  P.  Garrett  &  Co.,  708  Chestnut  street,  Pliiladclpliia,  Pa. 

For  Comi'dics,  F.iroos,  and  Di:i)of,'ncs  of  a  (Iiversifie<l  cliaracter,  for  Amateur 
performances  and  School  Kxhiliitiniis,  see  (jthcr  Nunihers  of  the  Scries.  The 
Supplement  to  No.  IG  is  fnr  Sabliath  School  Entcrtniiimcnta,  and  also  contains 
Tenipi-rance  articles.  Airinnj.^  tin-  koo<1  tliinnw  in  Nd.  11  is  an  excellent  Tcni]"!- 
ance  Comedy.  Similar  additions  have  been  maile  to  the  first  twenty  numbiis 
of  "  101)  Choice  Sele<;tionH,"  f>r  tlie  special  imrpow  of  furiiisliing  material  for 
Purlrjr  Theatricals  and  Dramatic  Clubs.  Send  fur  catalogue  of  pluyu. 
iJ.MM* 


194  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.  8.  ^ 

Commissioned  fiend  to  bind  in  fetters  strong 

Earth's  groveling  worms,  their  shriveled  soul  to  curse  ! 
Through  their  thick  legions,  Death's  Pale  Horse  I  urge, 

And  o'er  the  nations  like  the  whirlwind  sweep ; 
War's  bloody  steel,  green  Pest,  and  Famine's  scourge 

But  glean  the  harvest  which  in  wrath  I  reap. 
Over  all  realms  shall  stretch  my  growing  reign 

And  farthest  lands  burn  fiercely  in  my  glance, 
Redeeming  angels  barb  their  shafts  in  vain 

Against  the  throne  of  dark  Intemperance. 
Heaven's  harping  host  this  hour  I  have  defied, 

And  the  black  banner  of  my  band  unfurled ; 
The  old,  thin  mask  is  trampled  in  my  pride, 

As  here  I  mount,  sole  monarch  of  the  world  ! 

He  ascends  the  throne,  between  two  servants,  waving  the  black  flag 
and  clanking  the  chain.     Stamping  his  foot  savagely,  he  cries  : 

Slaves !  from  your  dens  and  loathsome  kennels  come ! 
Now  learn  to  taste  my  undisguised  control ; 

Enter  foUoivers,  one  with  a  woman  and  child. 

] 
Leave  your  pale  mates  and  starveling  whelps  at  home,  \ 

And  drain  once  more  your  monarch's  sparkling  bowl. 

[Exit  woman,  with  the  child. 
Why  crouch  ye  there,  ye  scared  and  tattered  train,  ^ 

With  knees  that  beat  in  mockery  of  the  heart  ? 
'Tis  Christian  fortitude  to  kiss  the  chain 

Whose  chafing  links  your  fingers  cannot  part! 
Oh,  now,  ye  Everlasting  Powers  below 

I  thank  you  all  for  this  my  triumph-hour ! 
See  how  the  bowed  and  trampled  menials  go 

Crouching  and  trembling  at  my  word  of  power. 
These  are  my  conquests,  mine  for  nether  hell, 

From  earth's  bright  legions  won  by  this  right  hand, 
Like  lilies  plucked  from  Eden's  sunny  dell 

To  droop  and  wither  in  a  desert  land. 
Ho,  minions!  slavesl  round  my  eternal  tlirone 

Gather  yourselves,  and  bow  the  trembling  knee ! 

They  bow  reluctantly. 

Readier  and  lower!     Now  my  kindness  ov/n, 
And  tell  the  saints  your  tender  love  for  me ! 

I  pause.     No  voice  ?     Rise,  dastards,  and  advance ! 
Kiss  the  sweet  scepter,  as  I  stretch  it  forth ! 


i 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  195 

This  arm  shall  teach  you  swift  allegiance, 

Aye,  aud  to-day  shall  quell  the  whole  round  earth. 

First  Follower  {advancing). 

O  heaven !  no  more  a  heaven  to  mj"^  lost  soul, 
Was  it  for  this  I  quaffed  the  first  bright  bowl  ? 

ITe  kisses  the  rod,  and  is  dragged  aside  by  the  servants  who  place 
the  chain  about  Itis  neck. 

Second  Follower. 

And  must  I?    O  my  wife,  my  murdered  wife, 
Of  this  you  warned  me  in  your  martyred  life ; 
Laugh  not  from  heaven  upon  my  overthrow, 
Vengeance  hath  come  for  all  your  hours  of  woe  I 

He  kisses  the  scepter,  and  is  dragged  off  by  tlie  chain,  as  the  first. 

Third  Follower. 

Ha  !  so  the  unholy  sowing  of  my  fair 

Young  life,  yields  shame  and  misery  and  despair. 

One  by  one  submits  to  the  degrading  ordeal,  but  the  last  stands 

sullenly. 

Intemperance. 

Why  stand  you  there,  wrapt  up  in  sullen  pride, 
When  every  slave  has  bent  the  knee,  beside  ? 
Bow,  dastard ! 

■  Last  Follower  (fiercely). 

^  Never !  no !  no !  never  more 

Before  thy  throne  I  bend  me  to  adore  ! 
False-hearted  demon,  I  have  given  thee  all, 
Only  beneath  thy  iron  heel  to  fall : 
Give  back  my  home,  my  name,  my  wasted  life. 
My  scattered  friends,  and  oh,  my  grief-slain  wifel 
Recall  from  death  my  well-belov>jd  child, 
The  spotless  prey  of  passion,  blind  and  wild, 
"When  thy  keen  scourge  my  brain  to  madness  lashed 

And  steeled  my  bosom  to  that  deed  of  liell. 
As  this  right  hand  my  shrieking  cherub  dashed 
On  my  own  hearthstone!     Ila!  I  see  him  there, 
The  red  blood  matting  all  his  golden  hair! 

Out,  dreadful  vision!     Fiend,  I  know  thee  well  I 
And  witlicred  be  the  knee  to  thee  I  bend, 
Though  all  thy  wrath  should  on  this  heart  descend  I 

Intfmpeuance. 

Then  die,  proud  scorner!     May  thy  life-blood  freeze 
And  curdle,  drojt  by  drop,  and  every  vein 


196  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

Forget  its  office,  and  by  slow  degrees 

The  shriveled  sinews,  pinched  with  cureless  pain. 
Draw  down  that  stubborn  neck  till  thy  proud  lip 
Shall  kiss  the  foot  that  spurns  my  fellowship ; 
While  all  my  knotted  serpents  choke  thy  breath. 
Gaspingly  gurgling  a  vain  prayer  for  death  I 

Last  Follower. 

The  causeless  curse  shall  smite  the  curser's  head ; 

Obedience  to  thy  power  hath  been  my  curse, 
And  now  I  scorn  thee ;  be  thy  vengeance  sped ; 

Not  all  the  gulf  can  make  my  suffering  worse ! 

lExit  Last  Follower. 
Intemperance. 

Go,  then,  but  round  thy  restless  heart  again 
I  will  bind  fast  my  firm  invisible  chain ; 

The  scorpion  conscience,  spurring  on  remorse 
For  thy  chastising,  shall  again  to  sleep. 

And  wild  and  bitless  as  the  prairie-horse 
Shall  thy  proud  soul  into  my  lariat  sweep. 

Now,  slaves,  return, — yon  dastard  goes  forlorn ! 
Take  at  my  hand  the  bright  and  brimming  bowl : 

Drink  swift  confusion  to  the  traitor's  scorn, 
Joy  to  yourselves,  and  triumph  to  my  soul ! 

First  Follower  (advancing  and  starting  back  %vith  horror). 
Ha,  back !  'tis  blood  !  and  mirrored  redly  there, 
A  grisly  Death  sits  crouching,  with  his  dart ; 
His  eyeless  sockets  wildly  on  me  glare : 

Heaven,  if  thou  canst,  oh  quench  this  burning  heart  I 

Intemperance. 

Ha,  ha !  drink  deep,  my  merry  boys,  'tis  sweet, 

You  know  it  well,  you've  quaffed  it  long  before ; 
Drink  minions!     [They  taste  and  shrink  back  shuddering.) 
Now  my  triumph  is  complete, 
And  man,  redeemed,  falls  back  forevermore ! 

A  Voice  (from  without). 

Boast  not  thyself;  behold  thy  hour  of  doom 
Is  near  at  hand  ;  yea,  even  now  hath  come ! 

Enter  hoys  and  girls,  streiving  flowers  in  the  path  of  Temperance, 
the  Goddess  following  with  a  slender  wand  and  ivhiteflag.  The 
children  can  either  recite  their  parts  in  concert,  or  sing  them,  by 
selecting  appropriate  tunes. 


dramatic  supplement.  197 

Children. 

Tyrant,  on  thy  awful  throne, 

With  thy  minions  bent  before  thee 
And  thy  sable  banner  o'er  thee, 

Tremble  for  thy  evil  done ! 

Tremble  for  thy  doom  begun  1 

Terrible  and  pitiless  one ! 

On,  bright  angel,  Temperance, 
Bear  aloft  thy  lily  banner. 
While  we  pour  the  glad  hosanna, 

"Wheeling  in  a  happy  dance, 

Joying  in  thy  joyous  glance. 

As  thy  welcome  steps  advance. 

In  thy  radiant  path  we  throw 
Roses  rich,  and  lilies  blooming, 
All  the  murmurous  air  perfuming, 

And  the  purest  flowers  that  grow, 

Braiding  deftly  as  we  go. 

Wreathe  we  for  thy  brow  of  snow. 

Tliey  circle  about  her,  and  crown  her  with  the  garland. 

Intemperance. 

Ha,  Water  Spirit !  on  my  trail  again, 

Dogging  my  steps,  like  some  unquiet  ghost! 
What  sent  thee  hither,  with  thy  baby-train?. 

Off,  silly  thing !  I  scorn  thee  and  thy  host ! 

The  Goddess  Temperance. 

Dark  tyrant,  though  long  thou  hast  mocked  my  power, 

I  come  in  the  name  of  Jehovah, 
And  bid  thee  to  tremble,  for  this  is  the  hour 
When  the  reign  of  thy  terror  is  over ! 

The  children  thou  scornest  shall  dance  in  their  glee 
O'er  the  wreck  of  thy  thunder-scarred  palace. 

And  clasp  their  glad  hands,  as  they  rally  to  me 
Who  have  kissed  the  hot  lips  of  thy  chalice. 

The  mothers  of  Israel  and  vestals  of  God 

Come  forth  with  devotion  for  valor; 
The  blessings  they  win  are  as  dew  on  the  sod, 

To  the  victims  trod  down  in  their  squalor. 

From  the  slumbers  of  ages  the  nations  awake; 
The  drunkards  of  Ephraim  are  shaken. 


198  ONE   UUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.   8. 

They  rise  from  their  shame,  and  thy  manacles  break,    ■ 
Tliy  lures  of  the  pit  are  forsaken. 

Dark  tyrant,  thy  doom  is  recorded  on  high 

In  tire  such  as  burned  over  Teman ; 
At  the  touch  of  my  wand  to  thy  gloomy  gulf  fly ! 

Fly,  brood  of  the  pitiless  demon ! 

She  waves  her  viand  over  Intemperance  and  his  followers,  ivho  rush 
off  shrieking  in  terror,  trailing  the  black  banner  and  chain. 
Children  march  about  the  vacant  throne,  reciting  or  singing  : 

The  Boys.     Now  the  tyrant's  day  is  done, 
Now  his  horrid  race  is  run ; 
Gulfs  of  Hades,  give  him  room 
For  his  everlasting  doom ! 
Round  about  his  awful  throne 
Let  us  peal  a  joyous  tone. 
Hide  its  dismal  shape  in  flowers. 
There  to  throne  this  Queen  of  ours 
With  her  snow-white  flag  unfurled, 
Eegnant  o'er  a  ransomed  world ! 

Temperance  mounts  the  transformed  throne. 

The  Girls.    Now  begins  thy  perfect  reign. 
Temperance,  over  earth  again  ; 
Now  to  every  blighted  home 
Love  and  Joy  and  Peace  shall  come, 
Smiling  Industry  and  Wealth, 
Sweet  Content  and  buoyant  Health ; 
And  the  lamp  of  holy  lives 
Shall  re-light  the  human  hives 
Where,  till  now,  like  angry  bees 
Swarmed  innumerous  blasphemies. 

Boys  and  Girls.  Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother. 
Now  that  every  heart  rejoices, 
Join  with  ours  your  willing  voices. 

Voices  join  them. 

Bless  the  Lord,  for  He  hath  done  it; 
Victory !  His  arm  hath  won  it. 
Aye,  Eternal,  unto  Thee 
Praise  and  choral  songs  shall  be 
For  this  glorious  victory ! 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  199 

Lead  us  on,  O  Temperance, 
Round  the  rescued  world  advance; 
Bear  aloft  the  lily  banner, 
Heaven  shall  echo  our  Hosanna ; 

And  our  joy, — smile  down  upon  it; 
O  Hosanna!  O  Hosanna! 

Bless  the  Lord,  for  He  hath  done  it! 


COLD-WATER  CROSS. 

A   MUSICAL    RECITATION   BY   SEVEN    GIRLS    OF    DIFFERENT   SIZES. 

The  tallest  girl  enters  with  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand,  and  sings 
verse  one,  addressing  herself  to  the  %Lxiter  during  the  sii^ging  of 
the  last  two  lines.  She  tlten  places  it  upon  a  small  table  stand- 
ing at  one  side,  and  takes  her  station  in  the  centre  of  stage.  Four 
others  enter,  one  bij  one,  cross  to  the  table,  sing  verses  two,  three, 
four,  and  Jive,  respectively,  and  take  their  places  in  front  of  the 
Jirst  girl,  the  shortest  in  advance.  Verses  seven  and  eight  ore 
sung  by  two  girls  of  equal  height,  who  stand  on  eitlier  side  of  the 
second  girl.  When  all  are  at  their  stations  a  perfect  cross  is 
formed. 

I.  Tune,  "  The  Morning  Light  is  Breaking." 

First  Girl. 
From  far-off  snowy  mountains,  whose  brows  the  cloudlets 

fan, 
From  nature's  sparkling  fountains,  flows  down  God's  gift 

to  man. 
O  water,  s])arkling  water,  we  hail  thee  with  delight ; 
0  water,  sparkling  water,  we  sing  thy  praise  to-night. 

II.  Tune,  "  Watchman,  Tell  us  of  the  Night." 

Sf.coni)  Girl. 
On  the  hill-top  wild  and  grand,  in  the  valley  bright  and  fair, 
By  the  ocean's  shining  strand — water,  water,  everywhere, 
Pure  and  sweet,  and  undefiled,  springing  up  where'er  we 

tread, 
Welcome  to  the  little  child,  welcome  to  the  hoary  head. 

///.  Tune,  "De  Fleury." 
TiriRH  Girl. 

Afar  from  earth's  trouble  and  care,  away  in  the  realms  of 

the  sky, 
Where  clondlcts  sail  thronirh   the  bright  air,  God  brews 
this  ])ure  water  on  high. 


200  ONE  HUNDBED -CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

The  sun  watches  over  its  birth,  the  stars  their  glad  bright- 
ness impart ; 

Its  sound,  as  it  sprinkles  the  earth,  is  music  to  each  wait- 
ing heart. 

IV.  Tune,  "Little  Drops  of  Water." 
Fourth  Girl. 

Little  drops  of  water,  shining  as  they  fall. 
Bring  from  God  a  blessing  for  both  great  and  small. 
Sparkling  in  the  dew-drop,  ringing  in  the  rill, 
Little  drops  of  water,  ye  are  never  still. 

V.  Tune,  "I  want  to  be  an  Angel." 
FiFTn  Girl. 

I  am  a  little  soldier,  I  fight  from  day  to  day 
Against  the  foes  of  temp'rance,  with  all  the  zeal  I  may. 
I  wave  on  high  my  banner,  so  pure  and  bright  and  fair, 
"Cold  water"  is  the  watchword  that  shines  upon  it  there. 

VI.  Tune,  "Happy  Day." 
Sixth  Girl.  .>, 

I'll  never  take  within  my  hand  the  wine-cup,  filled  with 
sin  and  woe, 

Against  its  power  I'll  take  my  stand,  renouncing  it  wher- 
e'er I  go. 

Come  with  me,  come  with  me,  and  pledge  yourselves  from 
wine  to  flee  ; 

"Cold  water  "shall  our  motto  be;  so  shall  our  hearts  be 
light  and  free ; 

Come  with  me,  come  with  me,  and  pledge  yourselves  from 
wine  to  flee. 

VII.  Tune,  "There  is  a  Happy  Land." 
Seventh  Girl. 

Then  let  us  praises  sing,  water,  to  thee. 

Loud  shall  our  voices  ring,  joyous  and  free ; 
Clearer  than  jewels  fair,  sweeter  far  than  nectar  rare, 
Blessing  us  everywhere  on  land  and  sea. 

Wlien  the  cross  is  formed,  all  sing  verse  one,  "From  far-off  snowy 

mountains,"  etc. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  201 


THE  DEMONS  OF  THE  GLASS.*— Oliver  Optic. 

CHARACTERS. 

James  Pennington,  1  _  .  ,  .      -  .     , 
,  ,  >  Drinking  frienos. 

Jerry  Spencer,        J 

ToTiE,  a  fairy. 

Poverty. 

Crime. 

Disease. 

Edith. 

Little  Child  and  Servant. 

Scene  I. — E^iter  Pennington  and  Spencer. 

Pennington.  Now,  Jerry,  sit  down  and  have  something 
before  you  go  down  street.    This  is  a  raw  day  out,  you  know. 

Spencer.  I  can  stay  but  a  few  minutes,  Pennington.  You 
are  aware  that  I  must  meet  my  father  at  the  depot  in — let 
me  see  {looking  at  his  watch) — just  fifteen  minutes. 

They  both  sit  down  at  a  table. 

Penn.  This  would  be  a  cold  world,  indeed,  Jerry,  if  we 
couldn't  have  a  little  something  warm  to  take  occasionally, 
you  know.  (Rings  the  bell.)  Good  whisky,  Jerry,  is  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  to  develop  the  latent  caloric  in  the  hu- 
man system,  physiologically  speaking. 

Enter  servant. 

Servant.    Did  you  ring,  sir  ? 

Penn.  Yes,  I  rang.  Bring  us  some  of  that  best  whisky, 
Tom.  Mind,  the  best.  Of  course  I  rang.  Didn't  you  know 
what  to  bring  without  coming  to  see  ? 

Servant.  I  might  have  known.  (Aside.)  He  doesn't 
want  much  else  but  whisky  any  more. 

Penn.    Quit  your  muttering  there,  and  bring  the  whisky. 

Servant.    Yes,  sir.  [Exit  servant. 

Spencer.  It's  well  to  have  a  good  friend,  Pennington, 
and  I've  often  thought  that  we  ouglit  to  look  to  each  other's 
interests  a  little  more.  James  rennington,  I  believe  we  are 
both  indulging  in  the  glass  too  much.     For  my  part,  I  have 

"Fruiii  "Si!lioolil:iy  J)iiili>KUOH,"  vvhii-li  contains,  In  ailditioii  to  itfi  other  varicil 
attru:tioiis,  (|iiitc>  a  iiuiiilirr  of  I)ialo(;iie«  and  RccitatioiiH  for  tlio  very  littlo 
filkH.  "Helioolilay  "  in  adaptod  to  all  ajjcH,  nil  tiiiieH,  and  all  localitifH,  and 
wLidly  fruo  Iroiii  auythiiij;  olpjectlonalilo.     'M'2,  pages,  cloth,  81.00. 


202  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   8. 

determined  to  quit  short  off.  AVhen  I  drink  this  time  with 
you  {enter  sermnt  with  two  glasses,  filled,  on  a  waiter,  and  exit) — 
it  shall  be  the  last. 

Penn.  What  I  why,  Jerry,  whisky's  a  great  institution. 
It's  the  Hfe  and  soul  of  a  man  almost.  {Takes  up  glass  and 
hands  it  to  Spencer;  takes  the  other  himself;  both  rise.)  Here's 
health,  Jerry,  and  may  you  never  think  less  of  me  for  say- 
ing, Here's  to  your  resolution  ! 

Spen'cer.  Maj'  you  never  live  to  realize  the  tortures  of 
the  "Demons  of  the  Glass  I"  {Pennington  drinks.  Spencer, 
unnoticed,  cautiously  tJirotvs  the  contents  oj  his  glass  upon  the  floor.) 
So  now,  Pennington,  good-by.     I  must  go. 

Penn.  Good-night," Jerry.  Stop  and  see  me  often.  {Exit 
Spencer.)  "  Demons  of  the  Glass !"  AVhat  does  he  mean  ? 
I  feel  very  strange  to-night.  1  don't  think  I'm  drunk.  I've 
been  drunk  before,  and  I  didn't  feel  this  way.  Pshaw!  doc- 
tors often  recommend  whisky, — say  it's  good  for  consump- 
tion. Well,  so  it  is ;  good  for  nvj  consumption,  for  1  do  con- 
sume it  sometimes,  that's  certain.  Ha !  ha !  that's  a  g-o-a-k 
{spelled  only)  as  friend  A.  Ward  has  it.  {Rings  bell.)  Whisky 
is  good.  "  I  like  it,"  as  an  old  hotel-keeper  out  West  used  to 
say.  Good  to  raise  the  spirits.  {Three  or  four  distinct  raps 
near  the  table.  Pennington  starts  in  his  chair,  astonished.) 
Hallo !  what's  that !  Spirits  raised  sure  enough.  {Enter 
servant  witJi  glass  on  icaiter.)  You're  a  good  fellow,  Tom. 
When  I  shutiie  ofl'  this  mortal  coil — die,  I  mean — I'll  leave 
you  all  my  old  clothes.     {Drinks.) 

Servant  {aside).  He  won't  have  much  else  to  leave  any- 
body, if  he  keeps  going  on  at  this  rate. 

Pesn.  You're  a  good  fellow,  Tom ;  bring  me  another 
glass  of  this  soul-reviving  elixir  of  life. 

Servant  {aside).  He  likes  "er"  that's  true!  {Aloud.)  An- 
other, sir  ? 

Pens.  I  —  said  —  hie — another — didn't  I?  An — hie  — 
'nother!  Of  course  another.  {Exit  servant.)  Another — 
hem!  why  not?  Whisky  is  a  fundamental  princ — hie — 
ciple.  What's  a  fellow  to  do  if  there's  no  spirit  in  him. 
Another?  I  can  afford — hie — to  drink  as  much  as  I  please. 
I'm  a— hie— able.  I'm  rich.  I'm  going  to  marry  the  hand- 
somest, the  richest,  the  most  intelligent  lady  in  the  city. 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  203 

I'm  going  to — to— be  the  happiest  man  alive  {enter  servant 
with  glass— Pennington  takes  it) — if  Edith  Graham  and  tliis 
can  make  me.  You  didn't  put  just  a  little  too  much  water 
in  this,  did  you,  Tom  ? 

Sekvant.     No,  I  hope  not.  [Exit  servant. 

Pesn.  [s^ets  the  glass  on  the  table  and  looks  at  it.)  Jerry  said 
something  about  "  Demons  of  the  Glass."  I  don't  see  any. 
Jerry's  a  gOod  fellow,  and  when  he  said  that,  he  must  have 
meant  something.  I  feel  very  strange,  sleepy,  and  drowsy. 
{Thoughtful  and  low.)  "Demons  in  the  Glass."  {Falls  asleep 
with  his  head  on  his  arm  resting  on  the  table.) 

Three  or  four  girls  sing  a  stanza,  or  two  of  S07ne  temperance  song 
— very  softly— from  some  concealed  place  on  the  stage.  During 
ilie  singing,  eider  Toiie,  a  fairy,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  wand 
in  her  hand. 

Tlotie  {looking  at  the  sleeper).  Ah!  what  have  we  here? 
This  man  needs  my  attention.  {Taking  up  the  glass  and.  look- 
ing at  it.)  Oh !  i^oor  deluded  mortal,  why  will  you  drink 
this  vile  stuff?  I  must  help  him  to  see  his  condition. 
( Waves  her  wand  over  him.   He  starts  up  and  looks  around  uildly.) 

Penn.  Who— who — was  that?  {Starts  back  with  astonislv- 
ment  when  he  sees  Totie.)     Who  are  j  ou? 

ToTiE.    Totie. 

Pkxx.     Who? 

Totie.    Te — to — tal.    Totie  for  short. 

Penn.    What  do  you  want  here,  and  with  me? 

Totie.    I  came  on  an  errand  of  mercy  to  you. 

Pkx.v.  Tome?  Well,  now,  that's  a  fine  joke.  Well,  be- 
fore you  commence  business,  won't  you  have  a  little  nip  to 
waken  up  your  .spirits  ?    Hej'  ? 

ToTiR.  No,  I  come  to  warn  you.  That  {pointing  to  glasses) 
is  what  demons  feed  fools  and  dupes  upon. 

Pes'v.  {aside.)  Demons  again?  {Aloud.)  Fools  and 
dupes? 

Totie.    James  Pennington,  are  you  a  fool  or  a  dupe? 

Pknn.  I  acknowledge  being  a  fool  or  a  dui)e?  No!  no. 
indeed! 

ToTiK.     What  is  in  that  glass? 

Penn.     Wiiisky;  and  good  whisky,  too,  if  I  am  a  judge. 

ToTiE.    Wliatelsc? 

Penn.  {looking  in  the  glass.)    Nothing  else  there,  Totie. 


204  ONE  HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

ToTiE.  You  are  blind,  James  Pennington.  There  is  in 
that  glass  enough  to  make  you  cry  out  in  despair  and  hide 
your  eyes  for  very  horror !     There  are  demons  in  that  glass. 

FEtis.  {starting.)  Demons?  {Totie  waves  her  wand — Disease 
appears.     Who  are  you  ? 

Disease  {in  a  hollow  tone).  My  name  is  Disease.  I  am  the 
messenger  of  Death,  come  to  warn  you.  My  home  is  there 
{pointing  to  glass),  in  the  bottom  of  that  cup. 

Penx.  Eather  a  small  home  for  you,  I  should  think,  from 
your  size. 

Disease.  It  is  large  enough  for  me  and  all  who  are  with 
me  there.  [Exit  Disease. 

Totie  waves  her  wand — Poverty  appears. 

Poverty.    My  name  is  Poverty. 

Penn.  I  should  say  you  are  well  named  by  your  ap- 
pearance. 

Poverty.     In  the  bottom  of  that  glass  is  my  home. 

Penn.     I  have  never  seen  you  there. 

Poverty.  You  were  blind.  Thousands  and  thousands 
have  found  me  there,  as  you  will  in  reality  at  no  distant 
day.  [Exit  Poverty. 

Totie.  There  are  others  at  the  bottom  of  that  cup.  Shall 
you  see  them  ? 

Penn.     Oh  no !  no !     I've  seen  enough  !     I've  seen  enough ! 

Totie.  But  you  shall  see  them.  ( Waves  her  wand  and 
Crime  appears,  clad  in  rags,  and  chains  on  his  hands  and  feet.) 

Penn.     I  wish  to  see  no  more.     This  is  horrible ! 

Crime.  My  name  is  Crime.  I  live  at  the  bottom  of  yonder 
glass.  By-and-by  you  will  know  me  better,  and  do  my 
bidding.  I  am  a  "  Demon  of  the  Glass."  Those  who  use  the 
glass  obey  its  lord. 

Penn.  Oh !  leave  me !  leave  me !  What  does  all  this 
mean? 

Totie.    There  is  more  misery  there  {pointing  to  the  glass)— 

you  shall  see  more. 

Pevn.  I've  seen  too  much  now !  My  whole  soul  is  full 
of  terror.  {Fairy  ivaves  her  icand— Poverty  rc-eniers,  bringing 
with  him  Edith  and  little  child.)  Oh !  merciful  heavens !  what 
do  I  see  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  That  miserable  woman,  Edith  ? 
Edith  Graham? 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  205 

ToTiE.  This  is  a  vision  of  the  future.  That  is  Edith,  your 
wife,  and  that  is  your  child. 

Pknn'.  That  my  wife !  That  half-starved  child  mine  I  Oh, 
no  I  no !     That  can  never  be. 

ToTiE.     Listen! 

Child  {looking  up  at  Edith).  Oh,  mamma,  I  am  so  cold, 
so  hungry. 

Edith  (iveeping).  I  know  you  are,  my  child,  but  food,  or 
clothing,  or  shelter,  I  have  not  for  you. 

Child.  Will  papa  come  for  us  to-night?  I'm  sure  when 
he  comes  we  will  be  happy  again. 

Edith.  Alas!  my  child,  your  father  fills  a  drunkard's 
grave,  and  we  are  left  to  starve.  Once  we  were  rich,  but 
now  all  is  gone.     Misery,  and  only  misery,  is  our  portion. 

Pennington  covers  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  lai/s  his  head,  upon 
the  table.  A  few  .ntanzas  of  a  temperance  song  are  again  sung 
softhj  by  the  girls,  concealed  on  the  stage.  The  fairy,  Edith, 
etc.,  all  exit,  softly.     *    *    *    Stands  up — looks  around. 

Pen  v.     Was  that  all  a  dream  ?    Oh,  what  a  dream !    ( Fiiigs 

the  bell.    Enter  Tom.)     Tom,  take  that  glass  away.     There  are 

legions  of  demons  in  the  bottom  of  it — and  bring  me  the 

COLD-WATER  PLEDGE.     Mj"^  resolution  is  taken.    Never  shall 

another  drop  of  that  vile  liquor  pollute  my  lips.    That  dream 

has  saved  me.  pa.    ^  •     .<•  ?? 

I  Curtam  falls. 


THE  VEILED  PRIESTESS.— Laura  U.  Case. 


characters. 

Priestess. 

Hope. 

♦Bacchantes. 

Pity. 

Love. 

NEMf:sis 

Two  Youths 

Justice. 

Scene  I. — A  forest.     Enter  tivo  youths,  dressed  as  travelers,  urith 
staff  and  knapsack.     Lively  music  on  various  instruments. 

First  Yocth.     Did.st  hear  the  sound  of  music? 
Skco^d  Youth.  y\y(>!   within 

This  fatal  glen  'tis  said  the  Baccthantes  dwell. 

*Soe  Wubtflcr'fi  illunti'tttcd  Dictiuuary. 


206  ONE  HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.   8. 

Who  yearly  hold  high  carnival,  with  feast, 
And  dance,  and  riotry. 

First  Youth.  Why  fatal  glen  ? 

Second  Youth.    The  base  of  Mount  Parnassus'  rugged  steep 
Is  thronged  with  youthful  aspirants  for  fame. 
They  stem  the  roaring  torrent,  tirmly  tread 
The  jagged  rocks  which  pierce  their  bleeding  feet, 
The  lion  slay,  the  crouching  tiger  pass ; 
But  entering  once  within  this  beauteous  vale, 
Few  ever  leave  to  scale  the  higher  heights. 
And  stand  with  brows  all  bathed  in  radiant  light. 
Crowned  with  the  laurel  and  the  bay. 

First  Youth.  What  foe 

So  dire  and  formidable  haunts  this  place  ? 

Second  Youth.    Here  thrive  two  serpents,  Ease  and  Luxury, 
Whose  rainbow-tinted  hues  their  victims  charm, 
Till  round  and  round  the  crushing  coils  are  twined. 
Here  Bacchus'  panthers  roam  with  stealthy  tread. 
And  by  their  sobbing,  child-voice  cry  allure 
The  gay  and  fair  to  deep  recesses,  where 
The  foul  hyena,  Crime,  feasts  on  their  flesh. 
Till  all  the  vale  is  white  with  bleaching  bones. 

First  Youth.     I  credit  not  the  tale :  the  sun  rides  high  ; 
I'm  weary,  and  I  here  shall  rest.    The  air 
Is  perfumed  with  the  fragrant  breath  of  flowers 

Second  Youth.     Nay  comrade,  see  the  poisonous  ivy  cling 
To  yonder  oak !     Here  dangers  lurk  unseen. 

First  Youth.    I  hold  him  nobler  who  with  danger  copes, 
Than  he  who,  skulking,  shuns  the  unfought  foe. 
I'd  rather  list,  and  by  my  strength  of  will 
Resist  the  syren's  silver  song,  than  stuff 
Mine  ears  with  cotton. 

S^ECOND  Youth.  Aye,  but  shouldst  thou  fall  ? 

First  Youth.    Go,  timid  heart !  and  haste  thee,  else  thy  fear 
Will  soon  create  a  phantom  foe  to  clog 
Thy  loitering  steps.     I  tarry  here  and  rest; 
And  soon,  refreshed,  may  join  thee  further  on. 

[Exit  second  youth. 
O  Fame !  a  harsh,  exacting  mistress  thou ! 
Demanding  from  thy  cringing  worshippers 
The  ease  which  makes  life  worth  the  living  for. 
The  present  hour, — 'tis  all  of  which  we're  sure, — 
Each  joy  must  yield,  if  we  but  dream  of  thee  I 
The  price  we  pay  deserves  a  surer  meed, 


I 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  207 

Than  that,  perchance,  when  fickle  Fame  shall  tire 
Of  frowning,  she  may  turn  and  smile  at  last. 

Enter  two  Bacchantes,  carrying  flowers. 

Ha !  who  are  these,— dread  foes,  indeed,  to  fear, 

Whose  only  weapons  are  the  flowers  they  bear? 

I'll  question  them. 

Fair  damsels,  if  ye  be 

Not  woodland  nymphs,  from  whence  then  are  ye  come, 

And  whither  bound  ? 
First  Bacc haste.  These  garlands  fair 

We  go  to  twine  around  the  altar  where 

Our  sisterhood,  with  fruits  and  ruby  wine, 

Each  year  oblation  to  our  god  divine, 

Great  Bacchus,  bring. 
Second  Bacchante.  Wilt  go  with  us,  and  see 

How  royally  we  keep  our  revelry  ? 
First  Bacchante. 

Wilt  throw  thy  burden — cankering  care — aside, 

Take  up  the  thyrsus,  leave  no  joy  untried, 

Quaff  pleasure's  beaker,  till  ecstatic  fire 

In  full  fruition's  flame  consume  desire? 
Second  Bacchante.     A  merry,  merry  life  we  lead. 
{Lifting  clusters  of  flowers.)  Behold  I 

For  us  the  charmed  poppy's  leaves  unfold; 

On  Lethean  lotus  berries  thou  shalt  feed. 

Till  all  thy  past  shall,  like  a  dream,  recede 

From  memory. 
Youth  {soliloquizing).        Each  new  experience 

But  vitali/.es  life's  monotony. 

I'm  weary  with  this  bootless  quest  of  Fame ; 

My  comrade  is  not  here  to  croak :  "Beware !" 

And  when  I've  tested  this,  if  I  should  find 

That  Pleasure's  fruit  can  e'er  like  wormwood  taste, 

I'll  throw  tlie  cheat  aside. 
{A(ldres><iiif/  them.)  And  dotli  your  god, 

(jreat  I5acchus,  deign  to  come  to  earth  and  grace 

The  shrine  ye  worship  at? 
First  BAf  Mil. \ntk.  Ah,  no!  instead, 

A  Pri(;ste.s.s,  veiled,  whom  none  can  e'er  jjersuade 

To  raise  her  veil  and  to  their  sight  reveal 

The  face  its  shccMiy,  shiiiiiiicriug  folds  conceal. 

'Tis  an  enchanted  veil,  for  it  can  still 

Its  wearer  make  invisible  at  will. 


208  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   8.' 

The  god  descended  once  to  earth,  'tis  said, 
And  threw  this  magic  veil  about  her  head ; 
Installed  her  as  his  favorite,  chosen  priest, 
And  bade  her  tend  each  Bacchanalian  feast. 
Where'er  midst  mirth  and  glee  the  wine  goes  round, 
The  Veiled  Priestess  ever  more  is  found. 
None  see  her  form,  nor  hear  her  noiseless  tread. 
Nor  dream  loho  serves  the  nectar,  rich  and  red. 
Youth.    I'll  join  your  ranks.    Lead  on. 

Scene  II. — An  altar,  its  sides  profusely  trimmed  with  festoons  of 
flowers:  the  top  should  he  gilt,  and  on  each  of  the  four  corners 
stand  massive  goblets  of  wine.  Several  Bacchaules  are  grouped 
around.,  carrying  thyrsi  and  ancient  instrumeriis  of  inusic,  _ 
cymbals,  tambourines,  etc.  Youth  kneeling  in  front  of  altar,  on  a 
leopard-skin,  receiving  from  the  Priestess  a  goblet  of  nine.  As 
he  holds  it  to  his  lips,  tlie  Priestess  takes  from  a  Bacchante 
chains  and  handcuffs,  trimmed  with  flowers,  and  clasps  them  on 
his  wrists. 

ScEN'E  III. —  Youth  kneeling  at  feet  of  Priestess. 

Youth.    Great  Priestess,  at  thy  feet,  behold,  I  kneel, 
And  i)lead  by  all  that  once  I  might  have  been, 
By  what  I  am,  that  thou  wilt  set  me  free ; 
Release  me  from  these  galling  chains  which  drag 
Me  down  and  down.     Lo !  gnawing,  loathsome  worms 
Creep  o'er  me,  cold  and  slimy.    Brush  them  off! 
My  hands  are  chained.   Black  vultures  flap  their  wings 
About  my  face  and  cry,  "  Here's  carrion  !  come. 
Let's  tear  the  heart  out  by  the  roots  and  feast 
Upon  the  blood  !"     O  Priestess,  see  yon  fiend ! 
He  nearer  comes, — his  breath  like  furnace  heat, 
Is  scorching  up  my  flesh  !     Oh,  help ! 

Priestkss.  Poor  fool ! 

Thou  earnest  to  me  a  willing  devotee ; 
And  now  a  whim})ering,  paltry  craven  thou, 
Who  whines  and  cries.     Arise!  shake  off  thy  chains, 
Assert  thy  manhood  !     I  have  heard  thee  boast 
That  naught  held  thee  enslaved. 

Youth.  Thou  k newest  well 

I'm  helpless,  or  thou  durst  not  taunt  me  so. 

Priesticss. 

"  Durst  not !"    Brave  words  to  come  from  such  as  thou. 
Were  man  not  so  conceited  in  his  strength, 
I'd  count  my  victims  by  the  million  less. 


I 


DRAMATIC   SUPPLEMENT.  209 

Youth.    Thy  "  victims !"  that's  the  word.   And  who  art  thou, 
Who  hidest  thy  face, — or  else  the  sun  would  shrink 
In  darkened  horror  from  thj'  sight? 

PiuESTKSs.  Ha!  ha! 

How  thou  dost  writhe !  so  like  a  trampled  worm, 
That  squirms  in  vain.     I'll  vex  and  taunt  thee  still, 
Till,  like  the  scorpion  when  teased,  thou'lt  turn 
In  rage  and  sting  thyself  to  death. 

Wouldst  know, 
Poor  mortal,  who  the  Veiled  Priestess  is. 
Who  serves  the  wine  at  every  festal-board, 
And,  like  a  reaper,  gleans  her  willing  sheaves? 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  behold  my  face, — and  die! 

Throws  aside  her  veil,  revealing  a  death's-head  mask. 

My  name  is  Death! 

Youth,  with  a  shriek,  foils  at  her  fed.     Curtain  lowers  sloidy.    A 
deaih-march  is  played. 

Scene  IV.—  Youth  lying  as  left  in  last  scene.     Love  kneeling  by 
by  his  side,  weeping.     Enter  Pity,  Hope,  and  Nemesis. 

Pity.    Dear  Love,  why  weepest  thou  ? 

Love.  Alas!  alas! 

I've  sought  him  long,  and  now  to  find  him  thus! 

Too  late,  too  late  :  he  needs  no  saving  now ! 
Pity.   No  doubt  he  struggled.    See,  he's  chained !  and  oh, 

Look  where  the  iron's  galled  the  festered  flesh  ! 

The  links  are  red  with  blood  ! 
Hope  (stooping  over  huiLj.  He  is  not  dead. 

Dear  Love,  look  up ;  he  yet  may  be  reclaimed 

From  out  the  jaws  of  death  ! 
Nemesis  {coming  forward).  But  were  it  wise, 

To  nourish  back  to  life  that  which  can  have 

No  lot  nor  part  in  purity?     Nay,  nay ; 

'Twere  better  far  that  ashes  should  be  strewn 

Upon  his  head,  and,  like  the  leper,  he 

Sliould  cry,  "Unclean  !  unclean  !"  lest  Innocence 

Pity.   Oh  !  woulilst  thou  close  and  bar  the  door  which  stands 

Betwixt  this  youth  and  Mercy's  reach? 
Nemtsis.  His  right 

lie's  forfeited.     Stem  .Justice  holds  tlie  key, 

"Without  whose  aid  those  hinges  never  turn. 
Hope.    To  Justice  let  us  go.    And  Love  shall  iihiul 

This  poor  lost  v/anderer's  cause. 
2nn  '' 


210  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

Scene  V. — Justice  seated  on  an  elevated  chair  of  stale  at  left  of 
stage.  Slie  should  be  blindfolded;  her  right  hand  should  rest  on 
the  hilt  of  a  sword  ;  in  her  left  she  should  hold  a  pair  of  scales. 
Youth  kneeling  before  her.  Love  standing  beside  him,  her  hand 
resting  on  his  head.    Hope,  Fity,  and  Nemesis  present. 

Love.    A  sin-stained  soul,  a  weary  wanderer, 

Would  fain  return  to  Mercy's  sheltering  fold. 
Eeinorse  hath  placed  her  seal  upon  his  lips, 
And  I  for  him  would  intercession  make. 

Nemesis.     A  bankrupt  profligate,  because,  forsooth, 
There's  naught  to  squander  more,  would  brixig 
His  obligations  as  redeeming  traits! 

Justice.    How  answerest  thou  the  charge  preferred  ? 

Love.    A  diamond  once  was  sunken  deep  in  mire. 
And  Purity  stood  by,  and  durst  not  stoop 
To  claim  the  precious  gem,  lest  smirch  and  stain 
Should  soil  her  spotless  robes. 

A  deathless  soul — 
A  gem  of  countless  worth — lies  buried  deep 
'Neath  sin's  depravity.     Can  naught  avail 
To  wash  away  the  guilt  ?    Let  penitence, 
And  contrite  sorrow  for  the  past,  entreat 
That  mercy  temper  Justice'  stern  decree. 

Justice.    The  heritage  of  life  was  ne'er  bestowed 
To  waste  in  ease  or  pleasure's  vain  pursuit. 
The  phantom  beckons  on  till  mortals  tread 
On  lava,  cooled,  whose  incrustations  hide 
A  molten  sea  beneath  of  endless  woe. 
Few  ever  see  the  widening  fissures  creep 
Like  fiery  snakes  along  the  crater's  edge, 
In  time  to  turn  on  faltering  feet  and  flee 
The  grasping  clutch  of  Death.     If  such,  as  thou, 
Shouldst  turn  ere  yet  too  late,  the  angel,  Love, 
Must  guide  the  trembling  feet  till  they  shall  stand 
On  safer  ground ;  but  nevermore  secure 
As  they  who  never  fell.     Watch,  else  again 
On  crumbling  earth  thou'lt  tread.     For  thee  the  pries' 
Of  life  must  be  eternal  vigilance. 
Thy  chains  shall  Pity  loose.    {Pity  unclasps  the  chains.) 

Thy  shackles  fall ; 
But  scars  remain  which  time  can  ne'er  efface, 
As  souls  are  scarred  by  sin's  defiling  brand. 
Arise;  and  through  thy  future  life,  may  Love 
Thy  guardian  angel  be.  ^^^,.,^.,^  ^^^^^ 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  211 


SAVED* 

CHARACTERS. 

Phillips,  barkeeper.  Policeman  No.  2. 

Peters,  <iniiikard.  Faith,       ] 

Blanche,  drunkard's  child.        Hope,         }■  Three  young  ladles. 

Bolt,  jailer.  Chakity,  J 

Policeman  No.  1. 

COSTUMES. 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  should  he  dressed  in  irhite;  hair 
long  and  loose  over  their  shoulders,  a  band  of  id  rile  for  coronet, 
with  a  gold  or  silver  star  at  the  forehead,  a  red  sash  passing 
over  one  shoidder  and  under  the  other  arm,  with  the  respective 
names  upon  them.     Others  as  fancy  dictates. 

Scene   I. — A   bar-room.      Enter  man  half  drunk,  begging  for 

more  drink. 

Peters.  T-t-there's  no  use  talking,  landlord,  I  m-must 
have  just  one  more  drink. 

Phillips.     Show  me  your  money. 

Peters.     D-didn't  I  say  I  hain't  got  a  red  cent  to  my  name  ? 

Phillips.  Then  don't  come  round  me,  begging,  you  poor 
drunken  loafer ;  make  yourself  off,  or  I'll 

Peteiis.  D-d-don't  you  call  me  a  loafer,  or  Pll  give  you  a 
dose  of  that  {shaking  his  fist).  I'm  just  as  good  as  you,  the 
best  day  you  ever  see. 

Phillips.  Come,  come,  don't  shake  your  fists  around 
here,  I  don't  want  to  fight.  You  had  better  go  and  earn  a 
sixpence  somewhere,  then  come  and  ask  for  a  drink,  in- 
stead of  standing  here,  begging  away  the  hard  earnings  of 
respectable  men.    

Peters  {straigJdening  up  and  speaking  quite  soberly).  Re- 
spectable men !  Landlord,  I  ain't  a  fool,  if  I  be  drunk.  I 
wonder  if  you  call  your  money  hard-earned,  when  you 
stand  here  behind  y^ur  counter,  and  take  the  last  shin- 
plaster  from  the  haijds  of  a  hundred  wretched  drunkards 
like  my.self  ?  1  s'pose  you  think  you  are  mighty  respectable, 
because  you  can  wear  a  paper  collar  and  good  clothes. 
Landlord,  I  was  once  juHt  as  respectable  lonking  as  you,  but 

*Kr<jrii  "  .Mudel  DialogueH,"  which  contaiiirt  a  iiIfasiriK  variety  of  original  ma- 
terial fur  gniwii  pcojilc,  eniljniciiig  Moral,  lliiiiiormiH,  and  fliaraclcr  Skclclii'B, 
togi-ther  with  a  hiiKt  of  Ilialogui'H,  Acting  CliaradeH,  Tableaux,  etc.,  for  the 
youug  fulk«.     a82  pages,  in  cloth  binding,  81.00. 


212  ONE   HUNDRED    CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.    8. 

you've  made  me  what  I  am.  You've  got  my  last  sixpence, 
and  now  you  tell  me  to  go  and  earn  another,  to  give  to  you. 
{Turning  round  and  speaking  to  himself.)  My  poor,  poor  wife 
and  children,  I  wish  I  could  stop,  for  your  sakes ;  but  I 
can't ;  it's  no  use. 

Phillips.     No  more  of  your  blarney.     Get  out,  I  say ! 

Peters.    Not  a  step  without  a  drink.     I  must  Jiave  it ! 

Phillips.  Well,  you  won't,  you  know.  {Starting  toward 
Mm.)  Pve  heard  enough  of  your  lip  for  one  day.  Go!  You 
won't  get  a  drink  here ! 

Peters  {advancing  a  step  and  dratving  a  pistol).  Take  care ! 
don't  you  touch  me,  sir !  I've  come  prepared  for  you  to- 
day ,  you've  got  my  last  cent,  now  a  drink  or  your  life ! 

PiiiLiiPS  {runniug  behind  counter).     Murder! 

Enter  Policeman  No.  1.  Peters  discJuirges  tlie  pistol  at  him,  but 
misses.     Enter  Policeman  No.  2,  from  behind,  and  seizes  him. 

Policeman  No.  2.  Not  a  very  good  marksman,  but  you're 
caught  in  the  act,  and  now  you  may  go  with  us.  Give  me 
your  firearms. 

Peters  struggles,  hut  the  pistol  is  wrenclied  from  his  hand  by  Po- 
liconan  No.  1,  and  he  is  led,  still  struggling,  from  the  stage,  fol- 
lowed by  Phillips,  who  is  assisting  the policemeti. 

Phillips  {uxdks  slowly  back,  soliloquizing).  Well,  it's  more 
luck  than  wit  that  I'm  alive !  Supposing  that  scoundrel  had 
shot  me.  It's  lucky  that  the  police  were  so  near  at  hand  ; 
but  I  declare,  he's  desperate.  I'm  glad  he  is  in  safe  keep- 
ing; there's  no  knowing  what  he  might  do  if  he's  allowed 
to  run  loose.  {Seat^  himself  in  a  chair,  places  his  feet  on  the  top 
of  a  whisky-barrel,  tips  his  hat  to  one  s^ide  of  his  head,  and  takes 
up  a  newspaper.  While  he  is  reading  a  child  enters;  he  looks  up 
and  says :)  There  comes  one  of  his  brats  now.  I  was  in 
hopes  I  had  got  rid  of  the  whole  crew,  but  they  needn't 
come  here,  sniveling  and  begging.  Zounds!  she  looks 
rough,  though.     I  do  feel  kind  o'  sorry  for  her,  anyhow. 

Blanche  walks  up  before  him,  singing: 

Blanche.    Please,  Mr.  Barkeeper,  has  father  been  here  ? 
He's  not  been  at  home  for  the  day, 
'Tis  now  almost  midnight,  and  mother's  in  fear 
Some  accident  keeps  him  away. 


Blanche. 


DRA-NIATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  213 

Phillips  {mockingly). 

No,  no,  little  stranger — or  yes,  he's  been  here, 

Some  otticers  took  hiui  away, 
He's  gone  to  the  lock-up,  I'm  sorry,  my  dear, 
He's  done  something  wicked,  they  say. 

Oh !  'twas  not  my  father,  who  did  the  bad  deed, 
'Twas  drinking  that  maddened  his  brain, 

Oh  !  let  him  go  home  to  dear  mother,  1  plead, 
I'm  sure  he'll  not  touch  it  again ! 
\_CarUun  falls  and  the  singing  continues'behind  U. 

Blanche.     Please,  Mister  Policeman,  my  father  is  lost, 
A  man  says  you  took  him  away, 
Oh !  can't  he  go  home,  sir ;  and  what  will  it  cost, 
If  mother  will  send  you  the  pay? 

Policeman  No.  1. 

Oh,  no,  little  pleader,  your  father  can't  go ! 

We  put  him  in  prison  to-day. 
Go  home  to  your  mother,  and  quick  let  her  know, 
What's  keeping  your  father  away. 

Blanche.     Oh  !  'twas  not  my  father,  etc. 

Scene  11.— Bolt,  the  jailer,  armed,  walking  slowly  back  and  forth 
across  the  stage.    Enter  Blanche,  who  sings  : 

Blanche.    Please,  sir.  Mister  Jailer,  please  let  me  go  in, 
They  say  that  my  father's  inside, 
I  scarcely  can  tell  how  unhappy  we've  been. 
We  could  not  feel  worse,  had  he  died. 

Please,  sir,  it  was  drinking  that  made  him  do 
wrong, 
I'm  sure,  sir,  he  will  drink  no  more, 
Oh,  just  a  few  minutes,  a  minute's  not  long, — 
But  no  one  will  open  the  door. 

ITums  to  go  away,  singing  low  and  mournfully. 

Oh !  'twas  not  my  father,  etc. 

Bolt  takes  a  seat  at  the  door  where  the  prison  is  supposed  to  he. 
Enter  Failh,  Hope,  and  Charity  from  digerent  parts  of  tlie 
stage.     They  join  hands. 

CiiAKiTY.  Welcome,  sweet  sisters,  my  helpers  in  every 
good  and  noble  work.  We've  met  again  on  a  mission  of 
love.     Wliat  shall  we  do  first  to  best  promote  our  object? 

Hope.     We'll  hope  and  pray. 


214  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

Faith.    We'll  trust  in  God. 

Charity.  Heaven  help  us,  then  ;  thou,  sweet  Hope,  shall 
be  my  guiding  star;  and  thou,  dear  Faith,  my  anchor,  and 
mine  shall  be  the  hand  to  lift  our  fallen  brother,  and  save 
him  from  ruin;  let  us  go.  {They  admnce  toward  Bolt,  and 
Charity  hands  him  a  paper.)  Mr.  Jailer,  here  is  a  letter  of 
pardon  from  the  authorities,  will  you  release  our  brother? 

Bolt  (after  reading  it).  Can  it  be  possible,  that  the  wretch- 
ed vagabond,  shut  up  in  this  dungeon,  is  your  brother? 

Charity.  We  are  sisters  to  all  mankind.  There  is  none 
so  low  as  to  be  beneath  our  notice,  and  none  so  degraded 
as  to  deserve  our  scorn.  When  a  poor,  erring  mortal  has 
advanced  far  down  the  broad  road  to  ruin,  and  a  world 
joins  its  forces  to  dash  him  over  the  brink  of  .destruction, 
then  it  is  our  mission  to  win  him  back,  set  him  on  an  equal 
footing  with  us,  and  teach  him  the  way  to  heaven. 

Bolt.  Yours  is  a  good  mission,  friends ;  you  have  my 
best  wishes  for  your  success.  Wait  here,  and  I  will  bring 
the  prisoner.     {Goes  and  brings  him,  dragging  his  chains.) 

Charity.    Loose  him,  and  let  him  go. 

Bolt  {unfastening  him  and  throwing  aside  chains).  There, 
go!  you're  free  again,  thanks  to  the  efforts  of  these  friends, 
in  your  behalf.  May  you  be  a  better  man  for  their  sake, 
and  the  sake  of  your  family. 

Peters.  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  your  kindness, 
my  unknown  benefactors? 

Faith.  Not  so  unknown  as  you  suppose.  Our  good  sister, 
Charity,  has  been  a  frequent  visitor  to  your  wretched  home. 

Peters.  Don't  speak  of  my  home,  I  beg  of  you.  {Sits 
doum  and  leans  his  head  in  his  hajids,  siieaJdng  remorsefully.)  I 
had  a  home  once,  and  love  and  resjiect ;  but  I  have  none 
now ;  and  rum  has  been  my  ruin.  I  had  friends  once  ;  but 
I  have  none  now ;  nobody  to  help  me  reform  if  I  wished. 

Hope.  Do  you  remember  when  poor,  trusting  Faith  and 
trembling  Hope  were  thrust  outside  your  doors  ? 

Peters.  Yes,  yes,  I  remember !  My  poor  wife  and  chil- 
dren, how  they  have  suffered. 

Charity.  Yes,  brother,  they  have  suffered,  and  even 
now  they  are  weeping  for  you,  hoping,  trusting  that  you 
will  yet  be  an  honor  to  yourself  and  them. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  215 

Peters.  I  cannot !  that  never  can  be !  I'm  disgraced  and 
ruined !  I'm  driven  from  good  society,  and  shunned  by 
everybody.  No,  no !  it's  too  late  now !  [Speaks  impatiently.) 
Leave  me  alone,  there's  no  use,  I'm  a  lost  man  ! 

Charity  {advancing  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder). 
Brother,  don't  talk  thus,  I  pray  you.  I  know  the  world  is 
harsh ;  temptation  will  follow  you,  slander  will  assail  you, 
pride  and  malice  will  train])le  upon  you,  society  will  shun 
you ;  but  don't  say  you  have  no  friends.  Look  uj),  and  be- 
hold the  three  angels,  who  will  ever  attend  you  in  your 
hours  of  darkest  trials. 

'Peteks  {looking  up,  haslihj).  Faith!  Hope!  Charity  !  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity.  Are  these,  then,  my  friends, 
these,  angels  in  disguise  ?  ( Takes  an  emj^ty  bottle  from  his 
pocket,  holds  it  up,  and  looks  at  it;  talking  as  if  addressing  it.)  I 
had  thought  that  this  was  all  the  friend  I  had  ;  but,  instead 
of  a  friend,  thou  hast  been  but  the  lurking-place  of  a  demon. 
Never  again  shalt  thou  deceive  me.  What  care  I  now  for 
your  temptations !  I  have  friends,  true  frieiuls,  the  angels 
of  Faith,  IIo2)e,  and  Charity ;  and  they  have  saved  me. 
{Rises  quickly,  dashes  the  bottle  upon  the  floor,  crushing  it  to 
pieces,  and  shouts  loudly :)     Saved !  saved  at  last ! 

Scene  III. — Tableau — Peters  reformed. 

The  back  part  of  the  stage  should  be  hidden  from  tlie  audience, 
by  a  curtain  which  opens  in  the  centre.  This  can  easily  be  ar- 
ranged according  to  taste  or  convenience.  Upon  the  rising  of 
tJie  curtain,  Faith  and  Charity  are  discovered  to  the  right  and 
left  of  the  central  opening  of  the  curtain,  a  few  feet  from  each 
other,  with  their  right  and  left  arms  extended  and  gras]iing  the 
curtain,  ns  if  to  draw  it  apart  and  open.  Hope  is  discovered  a 
few  feet  in  advance,  and  midiray  between  them,  with  the  forefinger 
of  hfr  right  hand  to  her  lips,  as  if  invoking  silence.  While  "Home, 
Sweet  Home  "  is  played  or  sung,  very  softly,  in  the  distance,  Hope 
glovjly  moves  her  finger  from  her  lips,  and  points  to  the  scene  which 
is  being  revealed,  as  Faith  and  Cluirily  gradually  draw  the  curtain 
open,  disclosing  Peters,  hit  uufe,  and  Blanche  ."ie.ated  around  the 
mpper-lable,  Peters  in  tlie  act  of  asking  a  blessing  upon  the  meal. 

[Curtain  fidls. 


216  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE  SELECTIONS   No.   8. 


TWO   LIVES.*— Geo.  M.  Vickers. 

A  TEMPERANCE   MELODRAMA. 
CHARACTERS. 

Frank  Rowland,  a  wayward  youth. 
Maktin  Maythorn,  a  law  student. 
Gideon  Price,  the  village  x'astor. 
Widow  Rowland,  Frank's  mother. 
May  Bloomfield, 
Grace  Dov 
Villagers. 


OMFIELD,    1 

>■  City  gills  on  a  vacation. 

3WNING,      J 


Scene. — A  village  green.  Platform  nith  evergreens;  a  rustic 
bench.  The  walls  at  rear  of  platform  may  be  festooned  with 
flowers.     At  rise  of  curtain,  Mr.  Price  is  discovered  standing. 

Mr.  Price  {pointing  to  left).  Five  months  ago  that  beauti- 
ful building,  nestling  among  the  trees,  was  a  tavern,  the 
haunt  of  vice  and  dissipation ;  to-day  it  is  consecrated  to 
the  cauae  of  virtue  and  temperance.  Thus  has  the  labor  of 
an  aged  minister  been  blessed  by  kind  Providence.  Ah, 
here  comes  Widow  Rowland !  How  T  pity  her !  {Enter 
Widow  Rowland.  Mr.  Price,  taking  her  hand.)  Good  morn- 
ing, madam.  I  suppose  you  will  be  present  at  our  meeting 
in  the  hall,  to-day? 

Widow  Rowland.  I  fear  not,  sir.  My  heart  aches  with 
grief,  and  the  words  likely  to  be  sjjoken  would  only  more 
vividly  recall  the  cause  of  my  sorrow.     I  am  not  strong. 

Mr.  Price.  Too  true.  I  remember  your  son  when  he 
was  a  boy  of  fourteen.  A  finer  lad  never  trod  the  village 
street ;  generous-hearted  and  the  favorite  of  all. 

Widow.  And  now,  at  twenty,  an  outcast,  wandering  far 
from  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ;  the  hope  of  a  widowed 
mother's  heart  a  homeless  drunkard. 

Mr.  Prick.  My  dear  madam,  do  not  give  way  to  your 
sorrow.  God  is  merciful,  and  in  His  own  good  time  and 
way  will  surely  hearken  to  your  prayers.  {Laughter  and 
cheers  ivithout.)'  The  people  are  gathering  for  the  meeting — 
will  you  attend  ? 

Winow  {shaking  her  head,  sadlij).  No.  I  will  return  to  my 
humble  cottage,  and  try  and  find  in  my  work  some  relief 
from  this  heavy  weight.  [Erit  Widow. 

*Writtuu  expressly  for  this  cuUectiou. 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  217 

Mr.  Price.  Poor  -woman,  how  the  lines  deepen  on  her 
face.  Oh  that  a  child  to  appease  a  deadly  appetite  should 
crush  a  mother's  life  and  desolate  his  home ! 

Enter  Grace  Downing  and  May  Bloomfield. 

Grace.  Excuse  me,  sir ;  have  I  the  pleasure  of  address- 
ing the  Reverend  Mr.  Price  ? 

Mr.  Price.  You  are  certainly  speaking  to  the  Reverend 
IVIr.  Price,  and  if  that  gives  you  j  leasure,  you  are  welcome 
to  it,  both  of  you. 

Grace.  How  fortunate  we  should  find  you  so  soon !  I 
am  Grace  Downing,  and  this  is  May  Bloomfield. 

Mr.  Price.  What!  the  daughter  of  my  friend,  John 
Downing? 

Grace.  The  same ;  and  this  is  a  daughter  of  papa's  part- 
ner, Mr.  Bloomfield. 

Mr.  Price.  To  be  sure  she  is,  and  right  well  is  the  bank- 
ing firm  of  Downing  &  Bloomfield  represented  in  two  such 
estimable  young  ladies.  You  will  remain  in  the  village 
some  time,  of  course  ? 

May.  We  are  staying  with  my  Aunt  Polly,  at  the  Grove, 
and  shall  enjoy  the  pure  air  and  lovely  scenery  for  several 
weeks.  We  came  over  to  attend  the  meeting,  and  knowing 
you  would  preside,  were  just  wishing  we  could  find  you  be- 
fore it  began.  ( Taking  letter  from  pocket  and  handing  it  to  Mr. 
Price.)  Here  is  a  check  from  the  firm  to  aid  the  good  work. 
We  were  instructed  to  give  it  to  you  personally. 

i\lK.  Price  {taking  letter).  More  ammunition  with  which  to 
fight  the  enemy 

Grace.    Mercy  {pointing) !  look  at  that  poor  tramp! 

May.    So  forlorn,  and  yet  so  young! 

Mr.  Price.  3Iartin  Maytliorn,  as  I  live!  {Erder  Martin 
Maylhorn,  leading  Frank  Rowland;  the  latter  is  clad  in  rags,  and 
totters  from  ti:eakness  and  hunger.)  Why,  Martin,  what  un- 
fortunate have  you  there? 

Martin  (a.vu/r).  How  can  I  expose  my  old  companion? 
(Aloud.)  A  young  man  who  needs  immediate  assistance.  I 
fear  he  is  quite  ill. 

May  {to  firace).     Pof)r  fellow,  how  1  jiity  him! 

Grace.  Mr.  Price,  I  think  we  liad  better  depart;  the 
gentleman  evidently  desires  to  sjjeak  to  you  privately. 

2.NN* 


218  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS   No.   8. 

Mr.  Price.  I  wish  you  to  remain.  I  think  you  can  be  of 
service  to  me. 

Martin  [leads  Frank  to  bench).  Sit  down,  you  are  very  weak. 

Frank  (ivith  emotion).  It  has  been  so  long  since  1  have 
heard  a  kindly  voice,  that  your  sympathy  completely  breaks 
me  down.     {Bows  his  head  and  covers  his  face  luith  his  hands.) 

Mr.  Price.  These  ladies  are  deeply  interested  in  the 
cause  of  human  elevation,  so  do  not  hesitate  to  speak  what 
you  would  say.  {Cheers  are  heard.)  The  people  are  ap- 
proaching the  hall ;  the  meeting  will  begin  in  half  an  hour. 

Martin.  I  will  be  brief.  Four  years  ago  that  young  man 
was  my  chosen  companion ;  he  was  the  hope  and  pride  of  a 
widowed  mother.  He  stood  upon  yonder  railway  platform 
waiting  for  the  train  that  was  to  convey  him  to  the  great 
city.  Beside  him  stood  a  rosy-cheeked,  dark-haired  woman 
in  the  prime  of  life 

Frank.  Oh,  my  poor,  dear  mother !  {Wipes  his  eyes  with 
his  tattered  coat-skirt.) 

Marti M.  The  woman  was  there  to  bid  her  child  good-bye. 
I,  too,  stood  on  the  platform  ;  I  was  going  to  the  same  gieat 
city.  Both  the  young  man  and  I  were  beginning  life ;  our 
ages  were  the  same ;  he  was  to  enter  a  mercantile  house, 
and  I  was  to  study  law.  When  the  train  was  moving  off  we 
each  received  a  mother's  parting  kiss,  and  together  saw  our 
native  village  fade  from  viev/. 

Frank.  How  my  temples  throb !  My  heart  will  surely 
burst  with  bitter  anguish  ! 

Mr.  Price  {advancing  to  Frank).  I  see  through  it  all.  The 
mystery  is  solved.  {Taking  his  hand.)  Frank  Rowland,  I 
welcome  you  back  to  your  old  home,  and  I  would  to  God 
that  I  could  say,  with  truth,  that  you  have  profited  by  your 
absence.  Well  do  I  remember  the  day,  the  bright  spring 
day,  when  you  left  the  village.  Two  more  promising  young 
lads  never  began  the  battle  of  life :  but  now,  on  the  thresh- 
old of  manhood,  behold  the  same  two  lives! 

Frank.     Oh,  spare  me  ! 

Martin.     It  is  not  too  late.     You  still  have  a  chance. 

Frank.  I  cannot.  I  am  lost.  The  world  holds  not  a 
chance  for  me. 

Grace.    Every  blessing  is  the  fruit  of  virtue,  and  only 


DRAMATIC  SUPPLEMENT.  213 

sorrow  comes  from  sin.  Evil  companionship  has  distorted 
your  judgment.  Listen,  and  from  the  picture  of  two  lives 
decide  which  shall  be  yours ;  note  well 

THE  contrast: 

A  clear,  bright  eye,  a  steady  hand, 

A  fearless,  noble  mien  ; 
A  self-respect,  a  self-command, 

A  countenance  serene ; 
An  earnest  friend,  though  circumspect, 

A  character  unstained ; 
A  manly  step,  with  form  erect 

As  nature's  God  ordained. 

A  conscience  good  that  nightly  wins 

The  bliss  of  sweet  repose ; 
A  kind  reproach  for  others'  sins, 

A  tear  for  others'  woes ; 
A  cheerful  home,  a  happy  wife, — 

Affection's  just  reward ; 
A  good  old  age,  a  well-spent  life, 

A  hope  to  dwell  with  God. 

May.  Then  on  the  other  hand  behold 

The  poor,  degraded  sot. 
Whose  whole  career— when  all  is  told — 

Is  but  a  loathsome  blot ! 
The  bloated  face,  the  vacant  leer, 

The  fierce,  unmeaning  cry 
That  harshly  falls  upon  the  ear 

Of  every  passer-by. 

Whose  intellect,— God's  grandest  gift, 

The  mortal's  proudest  boast, — 
No  sentiment  can  now  uplift 

That  soars  above  a  toast ; 
From  whom  sweet  virtue  long  has  fled, 

From  whom  hope  drifts  away : 
A  human  wreck,  a  groveling  shred 

Of  premature  decay. 

Martin.         At  dead  of  night  when  all  is  hushed 

Save  distant,  baying  dogs, 
With  dn)()|.ing  head,  and  spirit  crushed. 

Behold  the  life  he  clogs! 
Till-  i)ati('nt  vigil — wretched  fate! 

The  hours  that  onward  creep; 


220  ONE   HUNDRED  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  No.   8. 

The  coming  home,  the  reeling  gait, 
The  blow  when  caught  asleep ; 

The  youthful  wife  with  anguish  wrung, 
The  beauty,  marred  by  care ; 

The  silver  threads  that  gleam  among 
The  mass  of  raven  hair! 

Mr.  Price.    The  crouching  form — the  startling  shriek — 

The  gasp — the  swollen  vein, — 
Announce  the  Rum  Fiends,  come  to  wreak 

Their  horrors  on  his  brain  : 
The  death— the  cortege  small  that  moves 

Along  the  chapel  nave — 
The  solitary  sob  that  proves 

'Tis  not  a  stranger's  grave 

Frank  (springing  to  his  feet).  Hold  !  I  can  stand  no  more. 
With  God's  help  I  will  free  myself  from  bondage.  I  have 
drank  to  escape  the  torture  of  misfortune- — the  relijf  was  as 
short  and  unreal  as  a  dream ;  to  avoid  a  seeming  woe  I  have 
plunged  into  an  abyss  of  untold  horror.  The  mission  of 
rum  is  to  deceive !     Oh,  helj)  me  to  be  free ! 

Mr.  Price  and  Martin  each  extend  their  hands. 

Mr.  Price.    With  all  my  heart. 

Martin.    I  will  stand  by  j^ou. 

Grace.    Victory !     Bravo ! 

May  {pointing  upward).  You  have  a  willing  friend  there, 
who  will  never  desert  you;  in  Him  put  all  your  trust! 

Martin.  We  will  begin  at  once.  Come  to  my  home  and 
I  will  loan  you  a  suit  of  clothes  until  you  are  able  to  pur- 
chase some  yourself. 

Grace.    I  will  get  papa  to  procure  you  a  situation. 

Frank.  Oh,  my  mother,  there  is  hope  in  my  sky;  the 
bright  day  is  already  breaking ! 

Mr.  Price.  We  can  get  the  clothes  and  fix  you  up  in  a 
few  minutes ;  Martin's  residence  is  near  at  hand.  {Impres- 
sively, as  he  goes  out.)     Another  rescued  life !       [All  exeunt. 

Enter  Widow  Rouiand. 

Widow  {wringing  her  hajuls).     I  cannot  rest.     A  strange 

feeling  has  come  over  me.     I  am  full  of  appreliension.    The 

image  of  my  boy  haunts  me  with  a  realism  that  will  drive 

me  mad.    Oh,  my  child,  will  you  never  return !    {She  sings  the 
following  song:) 


Tenderly. 


A  MOTHER'S  SONG. 

GEO.  M,  VICKEBS. 


=1= 


:J5^^H 


=1»z 


( 


=*=it:=i 


^^.=:::^ 


1.  Come  back  to  mother,   O  beau  -  ti-  f ul  boy,        Once  more  ca- 

2.  Come  back  to  mother,   o  spare  her  this  tear ;       Still     withaf- 


m& 


••*• 


m^tm 


-  ress  me  and  thrill  me  with  joy. 

-  fectiou  she  waits  for  you  Iiere ; 


Since    you  (lei>art-e(l,    With 
Otli  -  ers  may  love  jou,  'i>iid 


i= 


--^t*-- 


|1^^ 


Si 


:*=* 


:^^^ 


if* 


--=r 


ta 


^*=S- 


?=»-— 


t22l 


stransrers  to  roam.  Sorrows  like  shadows  Iiave  darken'd  our  home, 
hoii-oraud  fame,       But  thro'  all  changes  1 11  love  you  the  same. 


m^^^m=i^m 


I'rs-^TS" 


S 


^^gElE^.^^^lE^aE^ 


r^ 


=»* 


s^- 


5*- 


J-r->-l 


( 


■2  *       r^^'-^y-^-m^^ 


Cotxjrighlcd  !-*(«.        /».  UARUICTT  <t  CO, 


222  ONE   HUNDRED   CHOICE   SELECTIONS  No.  8. 

At  cmchtsion  of  song  Mr.  Price  and  Martin  enter;  they  are  fol- 
lowed by  viUugers  who  divide  right  and  left  and  take  positions  at 
the  sides. 

Mr.  Price  {advancing  to  widow).  My  dear  madam,  you 
will  doubtless  remember  Martin  Maythorn,  who,  four  years 
ago,  departed  for  the  city  ? 

Widow.    Alas!  too  well. 

Mr.  Price.    He  has  returned. 

Martiv.  Yes,  Mrs.  Rowland,  I  have  come  back  again. 
How  often,  when  a  child,  I  have  spent  whole  days  at  your 
cottage. 

Widow.    Speak  no  more ;  my  heart  is  breaking. 

Mr.  Price.  There  is  anotlier  young  man  in  the  village 
who  will  be  glad  to  see  you ;  you  know  him  very  well.  He 
has  just  arrived. 

Widow.  No,  no !  Pardon  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  any 
one  who  reminds  me  of  what  I  have  lost.  Oh,  my  boy,  my 
poor  boy ! 

Martin.    Prepare  yourself,  Mrs.  Rowland ;  there  is  joy  in 
store  for  you. 
AVidow.    Joy,  forme? 
Mr.  Price.    Aye! 

Enter  Frank,  unobserved  by  widoio;  he  is  neatly  dressed. 

Frank  (osidf).    My  mother!    God  be  praised ! 

Enter  Grace  and  May,  who  advance  to  the  widow. 

Grace.    Madam,  we  have  brought  you  a  visitor. 
May.     a  welcome  guest,  whose  smile  will  cheer  your 
heart. 

Widow.  What  mean  these  strange  words?  {Places  hand 
to  forehead.)     Do  I  dream? 

Frank.  Mother!  {Rushes  to  her.)  I  can  no  longer  keep 
you  in  suspense !     {They  embrace.) 

Widow.  My  boy !  My  darling  boy !  Now  is  my  happi- 
ness complete ! 

Mr.  Prick.  To  these  ladies,  and  Martin  Maythorn,  under 
God's  guidance,  is  due  the  credit  of  this  blessed  reunion. 
Rum  is  defeated,  and  another  soul  rescued  from  the  curse 
of  strong  drink. 


DRAMATIC  SITPPLEMENT.  223 

Frank.    And  all  through  words  and  acts  of  kindness. 
How  can  I  ever  sufficiently  repay  you  all  ? 

Martin  (advancing).     By  showing  kindness  to  those  in 
need. 

All  lake  position  for  tableau. 

Mr.  Price.     No  heart  is  dead  to  kindness.     It  is  our 
strongest  weapon. 

Grace.  A  kindly  act  is  seldom  lost, 

May.  And,  oh,  how  small  indeed  the  cost 

"Widow.  That  oft  relieves  the  breast  of  pain, 

Frank.  And  bids  the  heart  take  hope  again  I 

An  appropriate  temperance  chorus,  or  hymn,  can  be  hdroduced 

in  closing,  and  would,  grcatbi  add  to  the  effect,  as 

Curtain  Jails. 


THE  SPEAKER'S  GARLAND 

IN  EIGHT  VOLUMES. 


Vol.  I  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  1,  2,  3,  4. 
Vol.  11  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  5,  6,  7,  8. 
Vol.  Ill  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos,  9,  10,  11,  12. 
Vol.  IV  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  13,  14,  15,  15. 
Vol.  V  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  17,  18,  19,  20. 
Vol.  VI  contaiiis  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  21,  22,  23,  24. 
Vol.  VII  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  25,  26,  27,  28. 
Vol.  VIII  contains  "100  Choice  Selections"  Nos.  29,  30,  31,  32. 


Each  Volume  of  The  Speaker's  Garland  combines  Four 
Numbers  of  the  "l^'O  Choice  Selections"  Scries  in  one  hook, 
arranged  under  a  gtrneral  heading  and  an  alphabetical  index,  printed 
on  beautifully  toned  paper,  and  furnished  in  elegant  binding; — con- 
taining nearly  1000  pages  each; — making  truly  a  "Garland"  of 
imperishable  flowers,  alike  useful  and  ornamental  in  every  Parlor, 
Reading  Club,  Library -oTForum.     '.*"'■  /.  V..-  -. 

Price,  per  Volume,  Green  and  Gold,  $1.73. 

Eight  Volumes,  (mnking  the  complete  set,)  $10.00. 

FOR  THE  SAME  READIMG,  IN  A  CHEAPER  FORM, 

GET  THE 

"100  Choice  Selections"  Series 

Embracing  the  above  EIGHT  VOLUMES  in 
THIRTY-TWO  Separate  Numbers. 

EVERY  NUMBER  DIFFERENT.— NOTHING  REPEATED. 

SEE   PRICES   ELSEWHERE. 


OF  THE  ENTIRE  SERIES  WILL  BE  SENT  FREE  ON  APPLICATION 


FOR  SALE  BY  BOOKSELLERS  EYERYWHERE 

GET  THE  ENTIRE  SERIES. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


m  4   «« 


AUG  2    ■>**     f^^fe"APfc45,3 

B  ti  o  t^  i  ^f 


N0V2  9  195B 


iD*RL     APR      3' 


Form  L-!( 

2fi»i-li.'39(33S6) 


0 


969 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L^^IVWY    aI  U  p, 


AA    000  408100    6 


t 


o  = 


PLEA«5P  DO   NOT    REMOVE 
THIS   BOOK  CARD     \ 


-^ 


%0JITV3JO>' 
University  Research  Library 


u 
z 


:r3 


ZZ] 

1 


m 


